Which honestly felt deeply inconvenient considering my entire personality since age five had basically been a 64-count Crayola box with the little sharpener in the back. Peak artistic elitism.

I thought I was moving into my chic European creative era. You know, linen t-shirts. Espresso. Casually sketching in cafés while judging font choices on menus like a retired creative director villain. Instead, I got to France, opened Adobe Illustrator, and immediately felt like I was being sentenced to hard labor.

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I remember the first time someone told me I was good at drawing. In kindergarten we all drew robins flying through clouds with rainbows. Mine became the star of the class. I can still picture it.

Like most childhood masterpieces, it either got lost or ended up in the trash. Which honestly is humbling. One day you are Basquiat. The next day you are under a banana peel and expired yogurt in a Rubbermaid bin.

I remember my teacher and family absolutely carrying on over this drawing like the Louvre had personally called. My great grandmother was a well known painter in town, so my family loved telling me I inherited “the creative gene” from her. Which sounds romantic until you realize the creative gene also comes with emotional instability, hyperfixation, and an inability to walk past chipped paint without making it symbolic.

I loved drawing. Including on the walls, which my mother did not interpret as artistic expression. I was constantly doodling. No paper was safe. Notepads, homework, envelopes, margins of church bulletins. If it sat still long enough, I decorated it. At one point my crayons were confiscated like I was running an underground graffiti operation out of the family living room.

Now, of course, karma has arrived in the form of my own child.

Sonia is obsessed with drawing and actually very good at it. Which means I have become emotionally incapable of throwing away even a single stick figure holding what appears to be either a balloon or a dead squirrel.

When we moved to France I had to physically force myself to sort through her artwork while building a “must keep forever” pile large enough to qualify as structural support for the closet shelving.

I have stacks of drawings hidden in closets and buffets. At this rate the local art museum will eventually be hosting “The Early Works of Sonia” and I’ll be standing there emotionally explaining a crayon scribble called Purple Dog in Crisis.

And God help me if she catches me throwing one away. That child has the observational skills of a federal investigator. She could spot a discarded marker sketch from three rooms away. The betrayal. The courtroom drama. The emotional testimony. Suddenly I’m standing trial in the South of France because I recycled a drawing of what looked like Peppa Pig having a nervous breakdown.

As I went through school, I knew I was going to be an artist someday. It was the only thing I truly cared about. In high school our photography teacher invited representatives from the Minneapolis College of Art and Design to speak to us, and I immediately decided that was where I belonged.

Did I know how much it cost? Absolutely not. Did I have a financial plan? Also no. My plan was apparently just “vibes and student loans.”

I also got accepted to Savannah College of Art and Design but decided it was too far from home. This was before my “move literally anywhere and survive out of pure spite” phase kicked in.

So off to Minneapolis I went.

Back then you had to submit a physical portfolio and I, in one of the more aggressive acts of confidence of my youth, submitted a painting inspired by Bob Ross. Happy little trees. Happy little clouds. Meanwhile I was a deeply closeted gay teenager from Iowa with the emotional range of a damp saltine cracker trying to paint inner torment through forestry.

Mortifying.

I believed everything had to be perfect and polished. I could not understand abstract art at all. Organic creativity terrified me because I was already spending all my energy trying not to accidentally seem gay in public. I was wound tighter than the lid on a jar of pickles at a Midwestern church picnic.

Then one day I dyed my hair green and went home for the weekend.

Was it the green hair? The Madonna posters covering every inch of my bedroom walls? The dramatic emotional attachment to “Erotica?” Hard to say. Either way, nobody said a word to me. My family collectively chose the Midwestern strategy of coping which is seeing absolutely everything and discussing absolutely none of it.

Fast forward and I left MCAD, went to community college, got my associate degree, moved to Atlanta, and went back to art school. I would drive two hours to work, then drive to class afterward, then drive home and repeat the cycle until I was basically surviving on caffeine, ambition, and KFC.

Later I moved back to Minneapolis, finally came out, loosened up creatively, and attended The Art Institute of Minnesota which turned out to be one giant for profit scam wrapped in a student loan. By the time I realized what was happening, I had two options. Leave with debt and no degree or stay and acquire a degree plus financial trauma. Naturally, I picked option two because apparently I enjoy challenges.

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Ten years later I finally earned my bachelor’s degree while working full time the entire way through school. Honestly I think my family assumed I was just going to remain enrolled forever like some sort of academic cryptid roaming the halls with a portfolio case and mounting debt. But I became the first person in my family to earn a bachelor’s degree, merci beaucoup.

During all of this I was learning design theory, marketing, advertising, storytelling. What I was absolutely not learning was technology.

Friends, this was Photoshop 1.0 territory. Ancient times. The software looked like it had been developed inside a microwave.

For the longest time I had zero interest in computers. I distinctly remember thinking, “Why would anyone ever need email?” Which is truly hilarious considering I later spent twenty years trapped in reply-all chains begging people to stop circling back on things that never needed circling back upon.

At one point a professor literally failed me and told me to choose another profession. Which honestly feels dramatic now. Imagine telling someone to abandon their dreams because they struggled with early Photoshop while the computer itself sounded like a dishwasher filled with rocks.

So I taught myself.

Every night after work I studied design programs. I bought books. I practiced constantly. Eventually I landed a design job at a small maps company which feels very fitting because I spent most of my twenties trying to figure out where the hell I was going anyway.

Over the years I moved all over the US, started a greeting card company, launched an LGBT magazine, climbed the corporate ladder, and eventually retired from Amazon as the Creative Director of Global Podcasting.

When we moved to France, I thought I would eventually freelance again. I figured I had enough experience and enough connections to pick up clients whenever I wanted.

Then I got here and started designing again.

And every single day I hated it more.

The clients. The revisions. The “can we make it pop?” energy. The endless cycle of people knowing exactly what they hated but absolutely nothing about what they wanted. Suddenly I realized I did not want to spend my retirement arguing over logo spacing with a man named Brent who discovered Canva six weeks ago.

That was the real identity crisis.

Not retirement itself. I loved retirement immediately. Retirement and I got along beautifully. Retirement and I were drinking rosé by noon and discussing shutters.

The crisis was this: if I was no longer a designer, then who exactly was I?

Because when you spend your whole life becoming “the creative one,” it is unsettling to wake up one day and realize you no longer want the job attached to the identity.

Then recently in Paris I noticed something.

I still loved design.

I just no longer wanted to produce it professionally.

Turns out there is a massive difference between loving creativity and wanting clients.

Paris teaches you this quickly. Some people walk through cities looking for shopping. Others look for status. I walk around looking at shadows on buildings.

I notice color constantly. Patterns. Light. Tiny details. The way white walls make objects sing. The way terra cotta glows differently at sunset. The chipped shutters. The old man watering plants. The silence of a square early in the morning before tourists arrive aggressively moisturized and searching for a coffee to go.

My grandmother used to say I was a romantic because of the way I observed things. Yuri would disagree. Especially around 8 p.m. when he tries to cuddle and I instinctively respond, “What are you doing?” Get away.

This week the great David Hockney passed away. A few years ago I saw his immersive exhibition in London and it completely stayed with me. Hockney understood something profound about light and color. He did not just paint what he saw. He painted what happened when you kept looking longer. How color shifts. How light changes emotion. How shadows are never just gray.

He once said a banker might die wishing they had been an artist, but an artist will never die wishing they had been president of a bank.

The older I get, the more I realize that quote is not really about careers.

It is about attention.

About wonder.

About whether you actually experienced your life while you were busy organizing it.

Now listen, I am still deeply controlled in many ways. One reason I never got into drugs is because I am fundamentally too much of a control freak. To this day I like systems, order, plans, backup plans, backup plans for the backup plans. I alphabetize emotional breakdowns.

But age has softened me a little.

Now I notice things differently.

The weird colors in shadows. The patterns people miss. The way light hits an old French man’s bald head outside a café and suddenly turns him into a Renaissance painting sponsored by nicotine and SPF neglect.

So what is the point of this entire ramble?

Honestly, I think I spent years believing being an artist meant producing something.

Making something.

Selling something.

Designing something.

But living abroad has taught me that maybe being artistic is really about how you observe the world.

When I travel, I am not only looking for the spectacular attractions. I look at details. Gargoyles a hundred feet up. Cracked shutters. Patterns in tile. Tiny cafés. Smells drifting from kitchens. The silence of villages in the morning. The way light changes on rooftops throughout the day.

Travel became richer once I stopped trying to “do” places and started paying attention to them instead.

And living abroad interrupts autopilot completely.

Nothing is automatic anymore. Not language. Not humor. Not grocery shopping. Half the time I am standing in a French supermarket squinting at labels like I’m diffusing a bomb.

Is this yogurt?
Soap?
Fish pâté?
Nobody knows.

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You are suddenly forced into observation mode at all times. Your brain becomes hyper aware. You study body language. Tone. Rhythm. Facial expressions. You stare at people’s lips praying they slow down by literally half a syllable.

And honestly, artists and travelers have a lot in common.

Both are driven by curiosity.

What is over there?
Why do people live like this?
What happens if I try this?
What happens if I fail spectacularly in public and need to emotionally recover with cheese?

Curiosity expands us. It cracks open routine. It reminds us the world is much larger than our habits.

And beauty usually arrives through inconvenience.

The missed turn that leads to a sunflower field at sunset.

The wrong parking spot that leads to a village market.

The random café you enter out of desperation for caffeine that becomes your favorite memory of the trip.

None of it efficient.

All of it meaningful.

That is what I think Hockney understood so well.

Life gets richer when you stop trying to optimize every second of it.

Nobody reaches the end wishing they had answered just one more email. But many people wish they had wandered more. Explored more. Created more. Paid attention more.

And maybe that is where I have landed with all of this.

I no longer need to be a designer to still be an artist.

I am still the kid noticing color.

Still asking questions.

Still seeing patterns.

Still staring at buildings too long while tourists aggressively march past me toward a “Top 10 Things To Do” list.

The medium just changed.

Now instead of designing campaigns, I tell stories here. I paint pictures with words. I document the chaos, humor, awkwardness, beauty, and occasional psychological warfare of building a life abroad.

Turns out I never stopped being an artist at all.

I just finally stopped forcing it to come with deadlines, revisions, and a client asking if we can “make the logo bigger.” Honestly, if there is a heaven, I pray nobody there says “per my last email.” That alone would ruin eternity.

Moral of the story: Stay curious.

Take the trip.
Try the thing.
Move abroad.
Dye your hair green.
Start over.
Notice more.
Look up from your phone occasionally.
Stare at the light hitting the buildings like an emotionally unstable French widow.

The world is far too interesting to sleepwalk through it.

Follow along for more misadventures, observations, accidental emotional breakthroughs, and ongoing battles with French bureaucracy at @Le_Simple_Sudiste

If you want to support my writing, you can buy me a coffee or upgrade for $5 a month. Think of it as buying me one coffee a month, except instead of caffeine you receive stories, chaos, spirals, and my guide: “Moving to France: The Paperwork, The Panic, The Plan.”

Annual subscribers also get 1:1 time with me if you are planning your own move abroad. Which means I can personally talk you off the ledge while you wonder if your French visa paperwork requires seventeen copies of your birth certificate blessed by a goat farmer in Toulouse.

Now go restack this post before I relapse into graphic design and start arguing with someone about kerning again.

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Today’s post is a little therapy session disguised as storytelling. Grab a coffee and come unpack this with me.

Apparently no matter how far you move, no matter how much cheese you consume, no matter how charming the medieval walls are, human beings will still form tiny social kingdoms like it’s sophomore year and someone just stole Regina George’s pink cardigan.

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I am a person who likes to be liked and honestly that is problem number one. This week I heard that someone didn’t like me. Shocking, I know. Alert the media. Lower the flags. Inform the bakery.

But the funniest part was that I was told this person does not actually know me. Has never met me. Has never spoken to me. They just decided I am not their cup of tea from afar like some sort of dramatic Yelp review.

And immediately I heard my grandma’s voice in my head saying, “Take a bite before you tell me it’s gross.”

Honestly? Fair.

I do not think I am a big fish in a small pond, though sometimes expat life can weirdly feel that way. Yuri and I were talking about how Carcassonne is actually a big town when you look at the broader French population, the outskirts, the daily rhythm of local life.

But then there is the expat world. The tiny community inside the community. The fishbowl within the fishbowl.

And in that world, we are recognizable. We stand out. We exist on the edges of the expat social circle. We are the only two dads. People know us even when we have absolutely no idea who they are. Which is honestly unsettling when someone walks up like they’re greeting a long-lost cousin and I’m internally doing the math trying to figure out if we met at a wine night, a school event, or because they read my blog while eating yogurt in bed.

When we first moved to Carcassonne, we did what most expats do. We joined the English Speakers group. AVF. We got social. Connected. Involved. We attended parties. We said yes to everything because you’re trying to build a life and friendships from scratch. Everyone was our friend. How American.

It’s what expats do.

Two years later, Yuri and I still grapple with life abroad and retirement in ways I don’t think ever fully disappear. There are decades of conditioning to undo. Purpose. Productivity. Structure. Suddenly having too much time instead of not enough. Learning that freedom and boredom can weirdly sit at the same table together.

Yuri has been thinking a lot lately about purpose. Wanting to find something that belongs to him again. Missing family. Missing built-in connection. Wanting friendship and community in a way that feels grounding and real.

Meanwhile, I seem to be moving in the opposite direction. Becoming less social. More introverted. More protective of my time and energy. Less interested in short-term gratification and more focused on building the long-term life I imagined for us years ago.

Both things can exist together of course. Gratitude and disruption. Freedom and loneliness. Peace and restlessness. Retirement abroad can be beautiful while also quietly shaking loose parts of yourself you never realized were so tied to work, routine, productivity, and constant motion.

And when you don’t pay attention to what retirement is actually bringing up emotionally, it can also introduce chaos, insecurity, isolation, overthinking, and a strange search for meaning in places that don’t always deserve that much power over your happiness.

I think sometimes that’s why small-town social dynamics can hit harder abroad. People are not just looking for friends. They are looking for purpose. Identity. Belonging. Distraction. Validation. Something to fill the enormous silence that appears when your old life disappears and nobody is asking for quarterly reports anymore.

What nobody really warns you is one of the hardest part of moving abroad is not necessarily the language barrier or the paperwork or figuring out why every single French administrative office closes exactly when you finally understand what document they want from you.

The real challenge is accidentally can look like sitting at the wrong lunch table as a fully grown adult.

Small towns become adult versions of Mean Girls with better wine and orthopedic inserts.

There are the self-appointed mayors. The gatekeepers. The social climbers. The “concerned citizens” who somehow know everybody’s business before the people living it do. And of course, the Regina Georges who smile warmly at you in the market and then immediately text about you before you’ve even reached produce.

One minute you are innocently having coffee with someone and the next you have unknowingly joined a blood feud that started in 2017 over a tutor, a Facebook comment, and somebody not bringing enough wine to game night.

And every small town insists they are “not about drama” while treating brunch invitations like NATO alliances.

“You went to HER apero?”

Ma’am. It was cheese and rosé. Not the Treaty of Versailles.

Yuri and I have mostly escaped a lot of this over the last year because we slowly withdrew into actual daily life with Sonia. We exist somewhere between expat life and French family life now. School pick-up. Homework. Laundry. Grocery shopping. Trying to remember what activity day it is at school while simultaneously forgetting where we parked the car in the store lot. Having conversations with the pharmacist.

We are not the first expats raising kids here of course. Plenty have done it before us. Most of their kids are now adults. Meanwhile Yuri and I exist in this strange limbo where we are too young to be retired and too old to fully blend in with the exhausted thirty-something parents at the playground surviving entirely on espresso and quiet panic.

But there is something funny about becoming less socially visible because you’re busy living your life. Somehow not being present all the time makes people even more curious about you.

At least that’s what I’ve learned lately as random comments start floating back to me.

“So and so said this.”

“This person thinks that.”

And sometimes, admittedly, I ask for it. I know who some of the main players are now and occasionally I ask, “Okay but has our name come up?” Which is always the moment I receive information I absolutely did not need and was spiritually thriving without.

I immediately zoom in on it too. I stew. I analyze. I replay conversations like I’m working for the FBI. I check my receipts. Then eventually I zoom back out and realize the issue is microscopic and irrelevant and mostly just people trying to create stimulation between their own boring lives and Sauvignon Blanc.

Because the reality is this.

This little blog has introduced some people to a version of me before they meet me in real life. Some people feel close to me already. They think they know me. They think they have access to me. And sometimes people expect more time, energy, and emotional intimacy than I actually have to give.

And it’s not personal. I genuinely appreciate the time people spend with me here weekly. Deeply.

Though I think sometimes it feels personal to others.

When Yuri and I had Sonia, we had to face something difficult. What does raising a child look like when you don’t really have family support? Our family unit is small. It’s basically my mom, my aunt, cousins who drift in and out, and us.

That’s it.

No grandparents lined up for weekly babysitting. No big support network swooping in to save the day. No magical village arriving with casseroles and free childcare.

Just two dads and a daughter trying to survive Wednesday afternoons.

We had a babysitter when we first moved here and she was wonderful, but she moved to Toulouse. And honestly, we do not trust just anyone with Sonia.

Which means our Tuesdays are laundry, errands, pharmacy runs, and school pick-up. Not lingering in the square for three-hour wine lunches while discussing who unfollowed whom on Instagram.

And listen, respectfully, we are not dragging Sonia to a bar for six hours so she can color beside table four while adults perform emotional gymnastics over goat cheese and rosé.

We have heard the comments though.

“You’re always invited and never come.”

Yes Brenda because our child still believes watercolors are an acceptable food group and someone has to supervise that situation.

Also, if I’m being honest, sometimes I simply do not want to attend events where the entertainment is grown adults gossiping like background characters in Mean Girls.

“Don’t sit at that table.“

“Where does Sonia come from?” (Yes a local expat asked us this once)

“Can you believe she wore THAT?”

“He said no when I asked for a favor.”

“She only buys organic eggs now.”

“He said bonjour to me once but it felt rushed.”

“I heard they switched pharmacies.”

The scandal. The betrayal. Lock them up immediately.

The thing about retirement that I did not prepare myself for was how much free time it gives some people to return to their glory days of high school behavior.

Small-town social circles are wild because some people treat your Instagram followers like ancestry records.

One minute they’re casually scrolling your comments section and the next they’ve built a full friendship genealogy chart connecting who knows who, who brunches together, who unfollowed whom in 2024, and who once liked a suspiciously cryptic quote.

Recently I discovered someone stalking my social media presence like it’s a part-time internship.

I post something.
Someone comments.
Boom. Friend requested.

I mention a person once.
Boom. Friend requested.

Suddenly your friend becomes their friend and then their friend becomes your mutual and before you know it your name is being discussed at a wine night you were never invited to by people you’ve literally never met.

It’s less “community” and more FBI-level social forensics with better scarves.

I swear some adults abroad don’t make friends naturally anymore. They harvest them through proximity and gossip like emotional pyramid schemes.

It fascinates me how some adults still move through life like unofficial hall monitors of other peoples relationships.

My advice, sit at whatever table you want with whomever you want. Okay Gretchen? Stop taking orders from Regina.

Nothing says emotionally evolved adulthood quite like receiving a burn book during orientation.

And honestly? Sometimes I fantasize about just selling everything and moving to Paris.

My Paris friends are reading this screaming, “do it!”

In Paris nobody is tracking your lunch companions like a detective solving a cold case.

Nobody notices if you skipped apero three weeks in a row because everyone is too busy surviving the metro, judging tourists wearing berets unironically, and trying not to get hit by a scooter.

In small-town expat life, absence creates speculation.

In Paris, absence creates absolutely nothing because people are busy living.

You become gloriously anonymous.

A ghost floating through the city buying overpriced candles and minding your business.

Honestly? The dream.

What I continue learning though is that somebody else’s conversation about me is not my business and certainly not my reality.

I need to stop expecting me from other people.

Living rent free in somebody else’s mouth usually says more about the emptiness of their own conversation than it does about your life.

I attend what I want when I want. I talk about what I know. I do not need to be right and I certainly do not need to discuss people who are not sitting at my table.

And what I’m learning is that some people’s lives have no internal lighting. They strike others just to create sparks. Their energy doesn’t come from their own adventures or stories or joy. It comes from managing the emotional weather around them.

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So what is my point?

I guess it’s this.

I did not plan for retirement-home-meets-high-school behavior when moving abroad. I did not anticipate cafeteria politics in medieval France. And honestly, the whole thing is so absurd it eventually becomes funny. I mean, I thought twice about even posting on the topic it feels so silly.

It is giving “You can’t sit with us” but everyone needs reading glasses.

So in honor of surviving another round of cafeteria politics disguised as community building, here are five things I’ve been learning in finding your people, avoiding the nonsense, and recognizing the adults still auditioning for the role of Regina George.

If someone immediately tells you who not to trust, be cautious of them.

The unofficial town tour always starts the same way.

“Oh my God, everyone here is crazy except me.”

Interesting.

Healthy people do not usually hand you a burn book during appetizers. Secure adults are not spending afternoons curating enemy lists. Let people find their own people.

The fastest way to spot the local Regina George is how urgently they need you on their side before you’ve even unpacked your groceries.

Normal adults let relationships form naturally.

Mean girls recruit.

Small-town “fame” is often just unmanaged free time.

Every town has them. The self-appointed social directors. The people acting like they own the expat community because they’ve lived there six months longer than everyone else and once organized a wine night in 2022.

These people survive on relevance.

They know every rumor, every breakup, every visa denial, every friendship shift, every passive-aggressive Facebook post disguised as “sending love and light.”

Do not confuse visibility with importance.

The loudest people in town are rarely the happiest.

Truly fulfilled people are usually too busy living their lives to monitor yours.

Your real people will never make you pick sides.

Healthy friendships abroad are the ones where nobody cares who else you had coffee with that week.

Emotionally mature adults understand human beings can exist in multiple circles without betraying a kingdom.

If someone becomes weird because you had lunch with another person, congratulations.

You are not in a friendship.

You are in a middle school alliance with appetizers.

Real community feels expansive, not controlling.

Your people make your world feel bigger, not smaller.

The best response to drama is usually confusion, not participation.

One of the greatest gifts you can give yourself in a small town is refusing to become emotionally fluent in nonsense.

I am a work in progress.

Sometimes people hand you gossip like it’s valuable insider trading information.

And honestly?

Half the time the strongest response is simply:

“…okay?” ….again, working on this.

You do not need to investigate every feud. You do not need to absorb every opinion. You absolutely do not need to know why Karen stopped speaking to Susan after the cheese festival incident of 2024.

Protect your peace.

Not every invitation into drama deserves an RSVP. Repeating this to myself.

Find the people who feel like fresh air.

The older I get, the less impressed I am by “connected” people and the more drawn to calm ones.

Find the people who laugh easily.

The ones who do not scan the room for social rankings.

The ones who can disagree without launching a public relations campaign.

The ones who make you feel relaxed instead of monitored.

Those are your people.

Not the gatekeepers.

Not the social climbers.

Not the adults still trying to recreate high school with better skincare and imported olives.

At the end of the day, the goal is not to win the social Olympics of a small town.

The goal is to build a life so grounded, full, and joyful that eventually the drama just starts sounding like background noise from another cafeteria table.

So moral of the story?

I am retiring from the Burn Book.

This is the last time I need to know who said what, who rolled their eyes at whom, who “heard something,” who vaguely posted “protecting my peace” on Facebook after two glasses of Chardonnay and a disagreement over padel teams.

The last time I will emotionally enroll in the University of Other People’s Opinions.

Because here is what I know now as a recovering people pleaser, want to be liked addict.

If you like being liked, small-town dynamics can swallow you whole. You start shape-shifting. Managing perceptions. Wondering if everybody approves of you all the time.

And the truth is?

Some people will dislike you simply because you remind them of something unresolved in themselves.

Some people need villains because otherwise they’d have to develop hobbies.

And some people are still emotionally standing in the hallway of North Shore High whispering, “She doesn’t even go here.”

The trick is learning not to audition for acceptance everywhere you go.

Observe the dynamics. Laugh at the absurdity. Stay kind. Stay grounded. Avoid the people handing out emotional loyalty cards at brunch.

And when you accidentally find yourself pulled into the nonsense, do what every emotionally evolved adult should do.

Smile politely.
Finish your wine.
Pay your bill.
And leave before someone starts explaining the 14-year history of why Denise no longer attends Thursday trivia.

That is growth. That is where I am headed.

Follow along on Instagram at @Le_Simple_Sudiste for more stories about France, expat life, accidental social anthropology, and my continued efforts to avoid becoming the Lindsay Lohan character in someone else’s emotional reboot.

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Now go restack this post before Regina George hears about it first.

I am off to take my own advice.

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Originally when I thought about traveling, I imagined myself taking the train to Toulouse, hopping on a flight, gliding elegantly into Paris. In my head it was all very cinematic. Minimal effort. Cute airport coffee. Looking vaguely wealthy while staring out airplane windows.

Then I did the math.

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One hour to Toulouse. One hour at the airport. One to two hours pretending to enjoy airport seating designed by medieval punishment experts. Two hour flight. Another hour into Paris. Suddenly my “quick little flight” became an entire workday. Meanwhile, I could leave my apartment, walk four minutes to the station, sit my ass down for 5.5 hours, and magically appear in Paris without once removing my shoes for security.

The train wins. Every time.

Now, I do have one issue with travel. I am 6’4. Airplanes were not designed for people my height. They were designed for people built like folded lawn chairs. Add in my HLA-B27 situation, which turns long periods of sitting into a Cirque du Soleil performance of stretching, cramping, standing, sitting, re-standing, and quietly groaning, and travel becomes less “vacation” and more “mobile orthopedic event.” I always book the aisle seat and carry ibuprofen like a suburban mom carries loose mints in her purse.

Still, I love train travel. Even from the aisle seat where I can only occasionally glimpse the French countryside between someone’s elbow and a man aggressively eating hard boiled eggs at 9 a.m.

And of course, every train comes with its own rotating cast of deeply fascinating strangers.

On the ride up from Carcassonne, I sat next to a woman who was either headed to a job interview or the world’s most emotionally complicated situationship.

She unpacked approximately fourteen cosmetic products and transformed our train car into a live backstage dressing room. Foundation. Powder. Lip liner. Contour. Mist spray. At one point I thought she was going to install recessed lighting. Occasionally she’d glare at me while applying mascara and I kept thinking, ma’am, respectfully, you are doing a full Sephora masterclass on public transit. I am not the weird one here.

Then came my favorite train archetype. The Over Perfumed European Auntie.

You know the one.

She enters the train five minutes after visiting every fragrance counter in a department store like she’s collecting Pokémon. Chanel on the wrists. Dior on the neck. Tom Ford somewhere directly into the atmosphere. The scent arrives three stations before she does. Your eyes water. Your throat tightens. Suddenly everyone in the train car has memories of a rich divorcée named Claudette who smokes inside and owns three tiny dogs named Pierre. She sits down and the air itself changes composition. Scientists should study these women because honestly I think they could neutralize biological warfare.

But then.

Then came Musty Backpacker Jean Guy.

A seemingly normal man sat across from me with his wife. Casual clothes. Neutral expression. Totally average looking human. And yet there was an odor. A thick, humid, deeply emotional odor. The kind of smell that tells a story. A story involving hostels, damp towels, and jeans that have seen multiple governments come and go since their last wash cycle.

When he stood up, the mystery revealed itself. Sir’s jeans practically stood on their own. Those pants had memories. Those pants paid taxes. I became convinced his denim contained traces of every train station bathroom in Western Europe.

And his wife just sat there completely unbothered.

Ma’am. Blink twice if you need help.

At one point I genuinely wondered if prolonged exposure had simply burned off her olfactory receptors. Because no loving partner should allow the person they cherish to marinate at that level. Somebody get this man a shower and a prayer circle.

All of this reminded me of Yuri and my honeymoon trip to Italy years ago when we still lived in San Francisco. It was my first international trip and I was so excited. Nervous too. Mostly because I already knew some man on the flight was going to recline directly into my kneecaps.

And reader, he did not disappoint.

Now listen. I understand airplane seats recline. I know this. I hear you all typing already.

But I personally believe basic decency starts with looking behind you first. Just a quick glance. A tiny moment of reflection. “Will reclining fully backwards into this man’s knees ruin his next eleven hours?” Maybe the answer is yes. Maybe you recline just a little instead of trying to achieve a fully horizontal sleeping position in economy class like you’re Cleopatra being transported down the Nile.

This man reclined directly into my knees and discovered very quickly that my legs were not moving.

He turns around annoyed and says, “Can you move your knees?”

Sir, where exactly would you like them to go?

Into the overhead bin?

He shoved backwards harder. I pushed forward harder. It became a silent battle of wills somewhere over the Atlantic. Two grown men locked in an economy-class dominance ritual while flight attendants walked past pretending not to notice.

Eventually he surrendered and put his seat upright. Democracy prevailed.

But honestly, none of that compares to the absolute fever dream that was our trip home from Italy.

A huge storm delayed our Rome flight and our one hour layover in Helsinki basically evaporated before we even boarded. When we landed, Hurricane Irma was tearing through the East Coast and there were no available flights home.

That’s when the airline attendant casually announced our solution.

“We can reroute you through Beijing.”

Excuse me?

Our honeymoon accidentally became a trip around the wold, literally.

Multiple hours of travel later, we arrive in China carrying our carefully selected duty-free treasures. Wine. Truffle oil. Limoncello. Little European luxuries we thought made us cultured.

Chinese security said absolutely not.

Now, because apparently I occasionally enjoy making situations worse, I tried arguing. I explained duty free rules. I explained TSA allowances. I explained logic.

The woman looked me dead in the eyes and said, “Sir, this is China and your flight is on the other side of this wall. You can either surrender the items or we can discuss it further in the back office.”

Yuri immediately grabbed my hand and said, “Drop it.”

Honestly, one of the strongest survival instincts in our marriage is Yuri knowing exactly when I am thirty seconds away from becoming an international incident.

And THEN.

Because the universe was still entertaining itself, Yuri and I ended up seated separately for the Beijing to San Francisco leg. Not far apart. Literally he was across the aisle one seat in. I was in the aisle seat on the other side. I thought, surely whoever has the aisle seat next to Yuri will switch with me. It is the exact same seat. Same row. Same everything.

A young woman boarded, sat down, and politely said no.

No explanation. No hesitation. Just no.

I respected it while also immediately deciding she would know no peace for the next twelve hours.

I told Yuri, “Perfect. We will now become the most interactive married couple in aviation history.”

We passed snacks across her. Water bottles. Headphones. Lip balm. Questions. Commentary. Bathroom trips every hour on the hour. Meanwhile the woman in front of Yuri clipped her toenails while eating an apple like she paid extra for a spa package.

At that point the flight no longer felt real. We were no longer on British Airways. This was more Spirit Airlines partnered with a fever dream.

Anyway. Back to Paris.

I arrived at the tail end of the heatwave and decided to walk from Montparnasse to the 15th where I was staying. Usually I stay in the Marais, so staying in the 15th felt oddly grown up. Residential. Calm. Like maybe I suddenly had opinions about produce markets and local pharmacies.

And something about navigating the Paris metro in French makes you feel weirdly powerful. You stop feeling like a tourist and start feeling like someone who has places to be. You confidently scan your phone. Power walk through tunnels. Stand aggressively near the doors before your stop. Suddenly you are giving “Paris commuter.” Mentally you are Anne Hathaway in The Devil Wears Prada after the makeover montage.

Physically, I was giving single dad for the week who owns several black T shirts and one “nice sneaker.”

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At one point Sacha and I stopped in front of a store display and both admired these impossibly chic outfits.

I said, “I aspire to look like that.”

Sacha immediately said, “Me too.”

Now listen. Sacha actually might achieve this. Sacha has range. Sacha has potential. I, meanwhile, remain emotionally attached to jeans and T shirts. My current fashion philosophy is mostly “let the tattoos distract from the outfit.”

Speaking of tattoos, I got another one this trip.

While walking to the gym one morning, I stopped outside a flower shop and nearly stuck my face directly into a bumblebee. Which honestly feels like the most French way possible to die.

But I’ve always loved bees. Back in Minnesota we had a pollinator garden and Sonia and I would sit watching them buzz around while I explained why bees matter. Bumblebees especially always felt relatable to me. Tiny wings. Thick body. Somehow still airborne. Honestly? Inspirational.

So naturally I decided on a bumblebee tattoo and found the most handsome tattoo artist in Paris to do it.

Reader.

This man looked like he was genetically engineered in a luxury skincare laboratory somewhere in Brazil. Talented. Kind. Beautiful. Came in on his day off to do the tattoo.

Sacha can confirm.

At one point I considered whether Sonia was open to a future stepfather arrangement.

The trip itself ended up being exactly what I needed though. Wandering bookstores. Spending time with friends. Browsing Shakespeare and Company before deciding I actually prefer The Red Wheelbarrow Bookstore in the 6th. Running into Amy Tan and getting a signed copy of The Joy Luck Club like some sort of literary lottery winner.

I also visited the viral CityPharma because apparently I enjoy chaos.

Do not go.

Imagine Black Friday in America if everyone was fighting over discounted French moisturizer inside an apartment-sized pharmacy while influencers filmed TikToks pretending they discovered cleanser. Absolute pandemonium. I bought tattoo lotion and escaped like I was fleeing a natural disaster.

And immediately upon leaving, while staring at my phone for directions, I slammed forehead-first into a restaurant awning.

My hat flew off.

People dining turned to stare.

I grabbed my head, grabbed my dignity, grabbed my hat, and power walked away pretending I had not just physically assaulted architecture in public. Somewhere a Parisian definitely whispered, “touriste.”

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Later that evening, after being ignored at an Italian restaurant long enough to qualify as abandonment, I left and decided maybe I’d just grab something simple.

And that is when I saw it.

Chipotle.

In Paris.

Now listen. Before you judge me.

I stood outside that Chipotle like a man having a spiritual crisis.

Here I was in one of the greatest food cities in the world surrounded by incredible restaurants and yet my American soul whispered, “burrito bowl.”

I tried fighting it.

I reasoned with myself.

But the heart wants what it wants and apparently my heart wanted double carnita and corn salsa.

And honestly?

It was incredible.

No regrets. No notes. I inhaled it with the focus and determination of a man reunited with an old lover.

In the end, the 15th completely won me over. Great restaurants. Easy metro access. Walkable. Calm. Close enough to everything without feeling swallowed by tourists. I will absolutely stay there again.

And on the train ride home, exhausted beyond comprehension, I encountered the final great traveler archetype.

The Accidental Shoulder Sleeper.

I had finally fallen asleep against the window (I accidentally selected window seat) when I woke up to discover the man beside me fully asleep on my shoulder like we had survived war together.

Sir.

You are neither my husband nor the handsome Brazilian tattoo artist. I’m going to need you to sit up immediately.

I stretched a little and he awkwardly repositioned himself without acknowledging anything at all. Thankfully he smelled neutral which, after this trip, honestly felt like winning the lottery.

And now life is back to normal.

Back to the heat.

Back to parenting negotiations with a tiny dictator.

Back to laundry.

Back to trying to convince myself I do not need to immediately plan another trip.

Moral of the story: maybe this is the whole point of travel.

Not perfection. Not luxury. Not even the destination really.

It’s the weirdness of it all.

The strangers. The smells. The accidental Chipotle in Paris. The toe nail clipping woman from row 14. The shoulder sleepers. The moments where you get lost, overheated, embarrassed, exhausted, or forehead-check an awning in front of an entire restaurant while twelve French people silently judge you over steak frites.

Because every once in awhile you need to change the scenery long enough to remember yourself again. To interrupt the routine. To become temporarily unhinged in another zip code. To sit on a train wondering if the man next to you has ever met a washing machine and somehow still think, wow, what a beautiful life.

Dr. Seuss was right. Oh, the places you’ll go. Also apparently: oh, the people who will recline into your kneecaps, and aggressively refuse to switch identical seats with you for absolutely no reason.

And honestly?

Worth it anyway.

Follow along over on Instagram at @Le_Simple_Sudiste for more mildly unhinged adventures across France and Europe.

If you’ve been enjoying my writing, the travel chaos, awkward expat moments, accidental emotional breakthroughs, and public humiliation stories from across France and beyond, consider supporting the chaos.

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Now go restack this post before I accidentally book another train to Paris.

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We are talking about a man whose entire day is built around one beloved trip to the gym and then a triumphant return to the house. Go. Come back. Done. That is the full scope of the ambition. That is the day. Maybe I wander to get a baguette but usually I task Yuri with that.

Saturday I am off to Paris and honestly, it could not be coming at a better time. I am in desperate need of a scenery change and when I am in Paris I become a completely different person. I can leave the apartment at 10am and be out until midnight, something that has not happened once in Carcassonne unless you count the time I fell asleep on the couch at 8pm and woke up disoriented at 1am wondering what year it was.

A restack goes a long way in helping support my work. I am grateful for your support. You can also click that little heart, comment or upgrade to a paid subscription.

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Here is the thing about me that you need to understand before any of this makes sense. I am a walking contradiction wrapped in t-shirts and sweats.

I love being invited to things. I just also do not want to go most of the time. Okay some times I do. It depends who’s asking. I am the guy who will complain about leaving the house with the energy of someone being escorted to a dentist appointment, right up until I step outside and suddenly I am fine. I am great actually. This is wonderful. Why do we not do this more?

It infuriates Yuri on a cellular level, which is fair, because Yuri is a full-throttle extrovert who would make friends at his own funeral and somehow turn it into a dinner party.

When I was in my early twenties I spent a lot of time with my grandma Sonia. We did dinner almost every night. If my aunt was in town or a dinner party was being planned, Sonia would ask, “should I invite your mom and dad?” And I would say, “invite them. They won’t come. But you can say you invited them.” I knew my dad would not come. And my mom would do whatever he did. They were invited. They declined. Everyone was technically satisfied.

I am now old enough to recognize that I have been trending in this direction my entire life. The invite arrives. I say yes. Then I spend the next 72 hours finding reasons why today specifically is not the day.

I am cautious about becoming the guy who gets invited because everyone knows he will not come. Even worse, I am cautious about becoming the guy who stops getting invited at all, sitting alone in a dark apartment in the south of France, technically living his dream, technically a hermit, technically a cautionary tale.

And yet, I do crave human interaction. I am just only now realizing that I have swung so hard away from burnout that I have landed somewhere equally unhinged on the other side of the pendulum. Almost like someone who quits drinking and immediately becomes addicted to hot yoga and unsolicited life advice.

I genuinely had this thought the other day when I was considering going to the gym a second time in one day. I stood there and thought, Rich, this is a problem. The gym is not a personality.

The old me survived 11 back-to-back meetings, a Slack notification every 45 seconds, and the particular corporate panic that descends on an office before noon when someone sends a calendar invite titled “quick sync” with no agenda and a 45-minute block.

That version of me ran on adrenaline and the eternal hope that someone would say “great job” in a meeting. My love language, as I used to tell my boss, is being told thank you or great job. That is genuinely all it takes. No awards. No spotlight. Just acknowledgment that I showed up and did the thing.

Now I wake up with what I have decided is a perfect, low-key, thoroughly reasonable day planned.

French practice. Coffee. Gym. Cleaning. Reading. Writing. Maybe a walk, depending on how ambitious the coffee makes me.

Then my phone buzzes.

What is this interruption?

Who authorized this?

I will say, I love texting. Texting I can handle. An unplanned call is a different kind of chaos and we do not need to talk about that right now.

I try to remind myself that someone cared enough to call and I should answer. It is usually a French person trying to sell me an electricity plan. But honestly? That is still a French person who chose my number. That is practically a connection. Bonjour, future friend.

The point is that none of what is on that list feels like a burden anymore. I do not feel the weight of it. But I feel something else entirely when something unplanned tries to wedge itself into the day. A last-minute invitation. An unexpected errand. An apéro someone casually suggests as if my afternoon was not already fully allocated to reading a book on the couch and maybe, maybe reorganizing a drawer.

These days my entire schedule orbits the gym. I protect that time like it is classified information. Going to the beach? How is that going to affect the gym? Lunch in the square? Interesting, but where does the gym fit? Apero at a friend’s place? Love that for them. What time? Because I was planning to go to the gym and then read and then possibly have opinions about a French grammar rule I learned at 8am.

My brain has become a scheduling app with exactly one fixed appointment and zero flexibility around it.

I have allowed myself to become burdened by the very things I should be grateful to have. An invitation is not an ambush. A friend asking to grab a drink is not a threat to my wellbeing. And yet somewhere between leaving corporate America and landing in the south of France, my nervous system started treating a casual “want to grab lunch?” like a Slack message at 4:58pm on a Friday.

I know I am also letting this keep me from seeing the France I actually moved here to explore. I moved here for the life and then immediately started engineering a life small enough to fit inside a three-block radius of my apartment. Bravo, Rich. Really living.

Now yes, I am going to Paris. And yes, I will absolutely be finding a gym in Paris and building my day around it. But Paris will break the pattern because Paris does not let you stay small. The city has a way of pulling you out of your head and into the street whether you planned for it or not. Days of saying yes to everything.

The jolt I need.

Yuri, being the extrovert that he is, helps more than I give him credit for. He is always encouraging me to go do things and he is supportive of my solo trips just as I am supportive of his. The difference is that Yuri can walk into a bar alone, order a drink, and leave with ten new best friends and three dinner invitations.

Buy Me A Coffee

I walk into a bar alone, find the corner with the least amount of foot traffic, stare at my phone making absolutely no eye contact, and quietly listen to everyone else’s conversations like a very stylish spy who never actually does anything with the intel.

Most people think I am a huge extrovert. Rich, an introvert? Absolutely not. I understand the confusion. I can work a room when I need to.

But I am the one in the corner taking it all in, reading the room, cataloguing the gossip, tracking three separate conversations simultaneously while the extroverts are out there joyfully jibber-jabbering and shaking hands and being, in the most exhausting way possible, fully present everywhere at once.

I am more broadly engaged. Just quietly. From a safe distance.

This slower life has genuinely rewired something in me. Nothing feels urgent anymore. I have been meaning to switch my phone plan from Free Mobile, which I hate with a warmth I reserve for very few things, to Orange, for several months now. And I simply have not been bothered enough to do it. Not today. Maybe not this season. Perhaps it is a winter project. Perhaps it is someone else’s problem in a parallel universe where I have more energy for administrative French bureaucracy.

I am also just better at simple conversations now. There is a woman at my gym, the mother of the previous owner, who I exchange a bise with every single time I walk in.

We talk about the weather. We talk about Sonia, her schooling, her husband who cannot get out much anymore. I plan these conversations in advance like a very charming person preparing for a very low-stakes TED Talk. And it counts. It genuinely counts. Because the French also do not feel the burden to hold a conversation past its natural end, which means I fit in beautifully.

Either I am becoming more French or I am becoming a very lovable hermit and frankly both outcomes seem fine.

Side note, how is 50 considered senior? I thought about this at the gym today. The person I see in the mirror is still clearly in his 30s, full of potential, very handsome, and yet apparently eligible for discounts at places I have not decided to visit yet. I suspect this is partly why I go to the gym as much as I do. I am negotiating with aging in real time, which is very on-brand for a man who moved countries and then stayed home more than before.

Also, and yes this is all connected, it is the heat. I hate the deep, relentless, nowhere-to-hide, why-is-the-air-itself-attacking-me 100-degree full sun days. I say this as someone who chose to move to the south of France, which is famous for exactly this, and who also prefers summer to winter. I like sun. I like warmth. I do not like feeling like I am being slow-roasted alongside someone’s favorite Sunday casserole every time I step outside before 5pm.

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So when it gets like this, I hibernate. I close the shutters, sit in the dark, write, read, learn French, putz around the house, and eventually go to the gym where they have finally, blessedly, turned on the air conditioning. This is my habitat. I have made peace with it.

It is, I fully acknowledge, a terrible excuse for disappearing on people. Just this week I was so deep in my own head trying to avoid the sun that I completely forgot I had told a friend I would message them to get together. They saw it as being blown off. And it was not intentional. It was just me, in my head, running a one-man operation called Avoid the Outdoors Until Further Notice.

Burnout does not disappear overnight. What I have learned, slowly and somewhat embarrassingly, is that sometimes it just changes shape when you are not paying attention. I stopped obsessing over work and productivity and started obsessing over protecting my peace with the same ferocity I once gave to quarterly deliverables. Rest became my identity. My nervous system exhaled. I started breathing deeper. My routines became emotionally addictive in a way that honestly should have its own twelve-step program.

Yuri has been telling me for months, “put it on the calendar.” And I have resisted this the way I resist most reasonable suggestions, which is to say with the quiet stubbornness of a man who has decided that being spontaneous means not writing anything down.

But the other day I was supposed to meet him somewhere and could not remember where I was going until I thought, oh right, he put it on the calendar. The calendar is not the end of freedom. The calendar is just adult life and I am in year three of pretending otherwise.

I am reminding myself that slowing down is healthy. Avoiding everything is a different situation entirely. There is a real line between rest and withdrawal, and I have been standing on the wrong side of it and calling it a lifestyle.

The version I am looking for lives somewhere in the middle. Not hustle culture. Not hiding from people and plans like my schedule is a witness protection program. Just life, with enough room in it for the gym and for other people and for the occasional yes to something that was not on the list.

So I am working on it. The problem is identified. The defendant has been located. Year three is calling and it is asking me to loosen my grip a little and let France actually happen.

The moral of the story: Hi, my name is Rich, and I am a recovering overachiever who cured his burnout so aggressively he developed an addiction to doing absolutely nothing, and I am now, with great reluctance and genuine hope, beginning year three of figuring out what the balance actually looks like. The gym will still be there. France will still be beautiful. And my friends, bless them, will still invite me to things. The goal is to say yes a little more often and actually mean it.

Headed into year three. Still in therapy with myself. Progress ongoing.

And yes, I will absolutely be at the gym tomorrow. But maybe also lunch.

P.S. When you see me, please feel free to say the gym is paying off. Bonus points if you follow it with “and you do not look a day over thirty-five.” Lying with conviction is one of the great love languages.

Follow along on Instagram at @Le_Simple_Sudiste for daily dispatches, questionable gym selfies, and the ongoing saga of a man slowly learning to enjoy the country he moved to.

If you want to support the writing, you can buy me a coffee or upgrade your subscription for $5 a month. Think of it as buying yourself that one good coffee. The kind you sit down with instead of drinking over a sink while answering emails.

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Now go share this post before I change my mind about being this honest in public.

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It is hard to believe sometimes that this is the place we call home. And then your pharmacist publicly defends your honor against an elderly French woman trying to cut you in line and suddenly you think, yes. Yes this is home now.

But let’s back up.

My original subscribers know this story, but so many of you are new, so here is the condensed, emotionally unstable version of how we got here.

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In 2016, Yuri and I were walking home from work in San Francisco. I was at Credit Karma. Yuri had landed a contract role there as well. We were commuting together every day like two people unknowingly soft-launching a complete psychological collapse into European relocation with a kid.

On one of those walks home we started talking about the future in that casual way couples do when they are actually negotiating the entire trajectory of their lives without fully realizing it.

Yuri told me that if we ever got married, he wanted kids someday. This was not new information. He treated “wanting children” like a recurring calendar reminder. Meanwhile I was still trying to emotionally process owning throw pillows that didn’t match.

I told him fine, I could agree to try for kids, but if I was doing this whole marriage expansion pack situation, then someday I wanted to live in Europe.

He said sure. Someday.

We both privately assumed the other person had completely lost their mind and neither thing would ever actually happen.

The universe, fortunately, heard us.

That random sidewalk conversation turned into a spoken vision board. A verbal manifestation. A lightly sarcastic blood oath apparently overseen by a Mediterranean witch somewhere.

Had I known the universe was actively taking notes, I also would have requested:

• generational wealth

• a seaside chateau

• naturally toned arms

• and a naked bodybuilder chef named Laurent

Instead we got bureaucracy, moving boxes, and a deep emotional dependence on rotating tower fans.

Fast forward.

We made an adoption plan, moved to Seattle for Amazon, bought a house, and the night our offer was accepted we got the call that we had been matched and a baby would arrive in approximately one month.

That was February 2020.

We all know now, was a TERRIFIC time to make major life changes.

During COVID, somewhere between house renovations, corporate burnout, and slowly realizing I was attending meetings while mentally dissociating into house hunting in Europe, I looked at Yuri and said:

“What if we just moved to France?”

The answer was a firm no.

For years I continued bringing it up.

He would say no.
I would say think about it.
He would say it is not happening.
I would nod patiently like a woman in a period drama plotting a murder.

Joke was absolutely on him.

Summoning my inner Cher Horowitz:
“No is just the jumping off point for negotiations.”

Now, France.

When we first moved here, France felt like a beautiful interruption to real life. Every morning I would look out the window at terracotta rooftops glowing in the sunrise and genuinely feel like I had accidentally wandered into someone else’s vacation.

Everything felt cinematic.

Fresh baguettes daily.
Affordable cheese.
Market shopping elevated from errand to full personality trait.

At one point I owned separate woven baskets and genuinely believed each served a different produce-based purpose. One for peaches. One for mushrooms. One for becoming the kind of person who says things like, “The tomatoes are better at the Saturday market.”

No boss pinging me for a “quick sync.”
No Slack notification capable of ruining an otherwise beautiful Tuesday.
No calendar invite titled TOUCH BASE.

And then slowly, quietly, something shifted.

Because now, 730 days later, France feels different.

Not worse.
Not less beautiful.
Just real.

Somewhere between prefecture paperwork, school forms, preferred grocery cashiers, and me having very strong opinions about which bakery slightly burns their croissants, the fantasy version faded into actual life.

Real life.

The kind where you are carrying rotisserie chicken down a medieval street while rage texting your husband that the pharmacy closed AGAIN because apparently France believes antihistamines are something people should have planned emotionally for before an unplanned stroll along the canal in spring.

There are still glimmers though.

Little moments where the light hits the tiled roofs just right. Mediterranean air floating through the window. Church bells ringing. Starlings dancing through the sky.

And then Sonia screams because we are out of mayonnaise and the illusion collapses immediately.

Honestly, balance.

But mostly the French dream has been replaced by French life.

And oddly, this version feels more meaningful.

We do not want things the same way anymore. We are slower. Quieter. Less reactive. Less consumed by the constant American disease of believing every second of your existence should somehow be optimized into personal growth.

My biggest daily stressor now is people not picking up after their dogs and the occasional child on a scooter treating the sidewalk like a qualifying lap at Monaco.

No quarterly reviews.
No CEO explaining my own job to me.
No “circle back” emails.
No “lean in” culture.

It is genuinely extraordinary.

The other day I watched a confused American walk into the post office. No French. Sweating lightly. Holding paperwork with the energy of someone moments away from spiritual collapse.

And I smiled because that used to be me.

Now I walk in speaking broken French and behaving like I belong there.

Which honestly feels like the greatest personal growth story of all.

But the real shift happened in smaller moments.

Moments where I realized we were no longer visitors.

At the gym recently, I finally had a real conversation with the owner’s girlfriend. We have been going there for two years. They know us. We know them. But there is always this weird invisible wall where everyone just smiles politely instead of committing to actual friendship or conversation.

Finally I pushed through it.

I asked about her son.
Mentioned Sonia loves playing with him.
We exchanged numbers.

That night she texted inviting Sonia to the lake.

THE LAKE.

Do you understand how major this is in expat terms?

This was not “we should grab coffee sometime” friendship.
This was logistical child coordination friendship.
This was sunscreen-level intimacy.

Then there was the Saturday market.

Our regular produce vendor …the parsley queen herself, Fatima … gives Sonia giant slices of watermelon every week like some kind of Mediterranean fruit grandmother sent from heaven.

One Saturday an older couple attempted to cut in front of me with the confidence of people who have skipped lines professionally since 1974.

The vendor saw EVERYTHING.

Without missing a beat, she ignored them entirely, walked directly past them, looked at me and said:

“Bonjour monsieur.”

I almost blacked out from validation.

She took my order while the couple stood there invisible and confused like background actors who had lost narrative relevance.

I stood there trying to act normal while internally thinking:

THIS IS IT.
I HAVE BEEN CHOSEN.
THE FRENCH HAVE ACCEPTED ME.

Emboldened by this experience, our friend wanted watermelon after us and the line had tripled.

Did I wait politely?

No.

I marched directly to the front.
Made eye contact.
Held up the bag.

No hesitation.
No apology.
Pure relationship equity.

Honestly the confidence? Disgusting.

Guess I am basically French now. All six foot four of me standing there in a baseball cap looking like a Midwestern dad who accidentally wandered into a perfume commercial.

But nothing topped the pharmacy.

Nothing.

Picture it.

I am standing in line with Yuri and Sonia when Yuri quietly says:

“The woman behind you is going to cut you.”

I laughed.

Surely not.
Surely nobody was bold enough to physically launch themselves past me in a pharmacy.

My shoulders relaxed.
My guard was down.
I still believed in humanity.

Foolish.

Because suddenly, with shocking speed for someone allegedly unwell, this woman SHOT past me and started speaking directly to the pharmacist.

My entire body changed.

My shoulders broadened.
My feet planted.
Spiritually I became a refrigerator.

Every deeply buried American instinct activated simultaneously.

Costco energy.
Black Friday survival mode.
Southwest Airlines boarding aggression.

Not today, grandma.

The pharmacist looked at me with an expression that said:
Please help me. I am tired.

She told the woman:
“Ma’am, he is next.”

The woman responded:
“I do not care.”

Honestly?
The audacity was almost inspiring.

Suddenly I understood why French people argue publicly with such passion. It is exhilarating.

One minute you are trying to buy antihistamines and the next you are emotionally prepared to defend your honor in a pharmacy duel.

The woman escalated. “Do you think I am blind, I see him. He can wait. I am here now. Help me. I am sick.”

Me, thinking “sick in the head if you think you are winning this battle lady.”

The pharmacist escalated.
Sonia’s ears perked up.
Yuri leaned forward in his chair like he had front row tickets.

The second pharmacist looked up, assessed the situation in approximately one second, smiled at me sympathetically, then turned to the woman and said:

“If you are truly that sick, we can call you a doctor. Go sit down, because he is next.”

OH MY GOD.

The woman screamed she would never shop there again.

Which honestly felt dramatic considering she looked approximately ninety-seven years old and seemed one strong breeze away from becoming decorative lavender.

I told her she was rude.
The pharmacist opened another register and waved me over.
The woman stormed out.

The entire pharmacy exhaled collectively like we had survived a hostage situation.

Both pharmacists apologized repeatedly.
Customers smiled at us.
Everyone wished us a lovely evening.

I walked out and turned to Yuri and said:

“We’re locals now.”

Because that is the thing nobody tells you.

The dream is not the important part.

The important part is staying long enough for the dream to stop performing for you and start quietly becoming your actual life.

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It becomes:

• the pharmacist defending your place in line

• the market vendor handing your daughter watermelon

• the gym acquaintance becoming a friend (maybe)

• your child becoming fully fluent while correcting your pronunciation with visible disappointment

That is the real version.

Not the fantasy.
Not the Instagram version.
Not “Emily in Paris.”

Just life.

Messy.
Funny.
Slower.
More human.

And somehow infinitely better than the dream ever was.

Because the fantasy version was always temporary.

Nobody can emotionally sustain permanent vacation mode. Eventually your magical European reinvention becomes the place where you are yelling “WE ARE LEAVING IN FIVE MINUTES” while carrying a baguette, a bike helmet, three reusable grocery bags full of cherries, and a child emotionally devastated because her yogurt “feels wrong.”

That is when you know it became real.

That is the whole thing nobody explains about moving abroad.

The goal is not to stay suspended forever in the fantasy version. The goal is staying long enough for it to stop feeling like fantasy at all.

Year one feels cinematic.

Year two feels intimate.

Moral of the story: Intimate is better.

Because the dream version still keeps one foot outside the experience. It is still observing. Consuming. Romanticizing. Treating life like a postcard.

But the life version?
The life version means you stayed.

Long enough to become recognizable.
Long enough to become expected.
Long enough for people to stop treating you like tourists and start treating you like the slightly chaotic tall American family that lives over there by the station and somehow always has a story.

That is home.

Not perfection.
Not permanent bliss.
Not some endless rosé-soaked fantasy where accordion music follows you down cobblestone streets while you buy peaches in linen clothing.

Real life.

The kind where your shutters rattle in the summer heat, your child corrects your French with visible contempt, and you accidentally develop emotional loyalty to a specific pharmacy.

And somehow that version feels even more beautiful than the fantasy ever did.

So here we are.

Two years later.
Still standing.
Still learning.
Still sweating aggressively every summer afternoon behind closed shutters like Victorian ghosts hiding from the sun.
Still wildly grateful we took the leap anyway.

Honestly, if you had told 2016 me that one day I would be living in the south of France arguing with elderly women in pharmacies while carrying reusable produce bags and discussing antihistamines in broken French, I would have been deeply confused.

But apparently this was the vision.

Follow along on Instagram at @Le_Simple_Sudiste for more dispatches, delusions, mild public confrontations, and real-time documentation of whatever France throws at us next.

And if this made you laugh, cry, snort unexpectedly in public, or briefly consider your own international life spiral, consider buying me a coffee.

Better yet, upgrade to a paid subscription for five dollars a month, which is honestly just one overpriced flat white except this option comes with significantly more chaos, emotional support storytelling, and occasional pharmacy warfare.

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Annual subscribers also get direct access to me for one-on-one questions about moving abroad, visas, paperwork, logistics, or how to emotionally survive your first French utility bill.

And finally:
Please restack this post.

Someday Sonia is going to read these stories. And I would really love for her to see that people keep showing up for them.

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A sassy return to form. A love letter to chaos. A Friday gift for anyone who has ever moved abroad or is thinking about it and has spent even five minutes in an expat Facebook group.

Just a few days ago we were in winter coats. Today it is 90 degrees. France does not believe in transitions. France believes in consequences.

Am I complaining? A little. Do I love it? Yes.

The first few days of any heatwave are the worst. This is science. I told Yuri the air conditioning won't be going on until at least the end of June and I said it the way you say things when you have already decided and are simply informing the other person of reality. He has been with me long enough to nod and walk away. Luckily it is still cool at night, so we do what the French do: throw every window open, let a cross breeze do the actual work.

Then at 10 am we shut the entire place up like two extremely stylish vampires and spend the rest of the day running fans and pretending we are fine.

A restack goes a long way in helping support my work. I am grateful for your support. You can also click that little heart, comment or upgrade to a paid subscription.

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We got lucky with our place. First-floor Haussmann-style apartment, tall ceilings, split ducts running through the whole thing. Heat and cooling by room. An actual luxury. What we did not think about was that the apartment faces east and west with windows on both sides, meaning every morning the French sun announces itself directly into our faces at 6 am. I prefer it over winter any day.

By 10 am though, it is a hot box situation and I am sprinting around closing curtains like I am defusing something.

By noon the shutters are closed and we are living in what I can only describe as a beautiful dark coffin in the south of France.

The Mediterranean dream, everybody.

In America I never once thought about my electric bill.

Hot? AC.

Cold? Heat.

Non-negotiable.

Here in France on an actual budget I now log into my electric account to check daily consumption and try to beat the previous month and year. I find this deeply satisfying.

I love a good challenge.

I also love that you can shop your electricity rates every year and lock in a better deal. Easy to do, real savings, and somehow never discussed in the expat forums because everyone in those forums is too busy being confidently wrong about something to talk about anything actually useful.

Which is a perfect segue, because this week the FB forums delivered. And I mean delivered!

We are talking misinformation served with authority, unsolicited sales pitches dressed as neighborly advice, and one post so spectacularly unprepared for reality that I genuinely considered printing it out and framing it.

Stick with me. The personas alone are worth it.

I have written about these groups before but this week I was read the riot act by enough Karens and Chads operating with the confidence of someone who has never once been wrong about anything in their entire life, while spreading misinformation as gospel, that I feel a revisit is not only warranted but medically necessary.

A few days ago someone posted that she had hired a relocation company to help with her paperwork, she was now in year two, needed to file for her Carte Vitale, and felt the company had not helped her. She was hoping they would make it right.

I commented that the company sounded like it had not delivered, and suggested she print off the application, build the packet herself, and get the process moving on her own. I also mentioned she had actually been eligible at month three and could have had her Carte Vitale much earlier than year two.

Well. A woman appeared.

“No Rich, you can’t do that. Temporary residents are not eligible for the Carte Vitale. That takes years. I am French. I know these things.”

I replied, calmly and with the measured energy of someone staring directly at their own Carte Vitale, that I was sorry but she was mistaken. A holder of the VLS-TS is a legal temporary resident and is absolutely eligible. I did it myself.

She replied: “Believe what you want. I know what I am talking about.”

Ma’am. I am not sharing a belief. I am sharing a card. That lives in my wallet. That I applied for on my own. In month three. I am sorry but the evidence is physically on my person.

Then there was the buyer’s agent thread.

A woman was asking about hiring someone to help with her house search. Completely reasonable. France can feel like real estate speed dating mixed with administrative escape rooms.

I suggested that if she was already local, it was worth trying the old fashioned method of walking immobilier to immobilier first, since the agency commission is often already built into the listed sale price.

I also pointed out that if she separately hired a buyer’s agent or relocation helper and that person was not working on a commission-sharing arrangement with the selling agency, she could potentially end up paying additional service fees on top of the standard notaire costs.

You would have thought I accused the Republic of financial fraud.

“Rich, you are wrong. They can’t charge double commission.”

And once again, the internet demonstrated its incredible ability to hear a sentence I did not say.

I did not say one agency was charging two commissions like some underground French real estate mafia operation.

I said two separate professionals can both have fees attached to their services depending on how the arrangement is structured. Which is objectively worth understanding before accidentally setting your money on fire during an international move.

Basic consumer awareness. Not a conspiracy theory.

But thank you so much for your contribution to the symposium.

Saving the best for last…there was the post that I am still thinking about.

A man had recently moved to France and had thoughts. He called it “not the normal depiction.” He wanted to warn people about the side of France that, and I am quoting, “NOBODY SPEAKS ABOUT.” He typed it in caps so you know he meant it.

He did not know he had to register his cat when entering the country. Given that there are approximately one million forum posts on exactly this topic, how he missed it remains one of the great mysteries of our time.

He could not get a French bank account because banks here have to complete additional forms for American clients and, as anyone who has done five minutes of research knows, this makes many of them reluctant. He needed a bank account to write a check to register the cat. He did not have a bank account. He expected a callback from a local bank with the application sent the the next day. The call did not come.

If you have lived here for more than a week, you are currently screaming. You are lucky to get a callback in the same calendar month.

He could not rent an apartment because he had no French banking history, no local work history, no local rental history, and apparently did not know a dossier would be required. He found it remarkable that the French rental market “favors French people.” Did you know you needed a guarantor? Why is this all so difficult!

Did you know he has an 800+ credit score? Why isn’t this helping? I mean it’s not like it’s written about constantly in every single expat resource that has ever existed. After five weeks of searching from an Airbnb, he announced he would just buy something instead, and was then shocked to learn that property closings here take three months and his credit score, again, wasn’t going to be an advantage for him.

He closed with this: “France is a beautiful country, but their government and infrastructure are antiquated and paper heavy. This is the dark side of living in France.”

The dark side of living in France is that it is not America.

That is the whole post.

I wanted to reach through the screen and personally return him to JFK with a carry-on full of pamphlets. He was, predictably, dragged in the comments by people who had clearly done research before boarding their flight.

A few Chads came to his defense, because Chads always find each other, but the consensus was clear.

Which brings me to the actual point of all of this: do not crowdsource your move. Not the immigration part. Not the tax part. Not the legal part. Please.

With resources like ChatGPT, which I did not have when I moved, you can literally paste a comment from a forum and get a better answer in thirty seconds. An answer you can actually write down, question further, and bring to a real professional with real credentials.

And speaking of moves, you do not need to pay 1,000 euros for a seminar and an incubator experience about moving abroad. You can book an hour with an actual immigration specialist for a third of that price and leave with current, accurate, legal information specific to your situation. Just saying.

But enough practical advice. Let’s have some fun, shall we?

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Because this week the forums were absolutely cooking, and I feel it is my civic duty to introduce you to the cast of characters you will inevitably encounter in your next expat Facebook group, which I prefer to think of as online performance art, anthropological fieldwork, and a digital escape room you cannot leave.

You know them. You love to hate them. Here they are.

Confidently Incorrect Carol

Carol moved here fourteen months ago and has not stopped talking since. She has read three comments, attended one prefecture appointment, and now dispenses immigration advice with the energy of someone who personally lobbied for the Schengen Agreement.

Carol does not have information. Carol has a origin story and she will be sharing it whether you asked or not.

Classic line: “Well that wasn’t MY experience.”

Funny retort: “Perfect. I’ll have that submitted to the Ministry of Your Personal Journey immediately.”

Relocation Rachel

You typed one sentence. You asked where to find school enrollment forms. You were not asking for a life coach. You were not asking for a rebrand. You asked about forms.

Rachel found you anyway.

“Hi! I work with families navigating this exact journey. DM me.”

Her package includes PDFs, mindset coaching, a vision board template, and a discovery call that somehow costs more than your electricity bill, your gas bill, and a therapy session you actually need after reading her pricing page.

Funny retort: “I appreciate it Rachel but I’m currently operating on the free trial version of my own life.”

The Six-Month Sensei

Moved abroad seven minutes ago. Has already launched a coaching business.

Bio: “Helping others create freedom.”

Translation: “Arrived last month.”

All Aboard Allie

You asked how healthcare registration works. Allie was in the comments before the notification finished loading.

“Hi friend! I can help with that.”

At first it feels neighborly. Warm. Like stumbling onto the one genuinely helpful person in a group full of Chads and Carols. You let your guard down. You respond.

The phrases begin arriving. “I work with families on this exact thing.” “This is SUCH a common mistake.” “We actually cover this in depth.”

Cover this where, you ask.

Inside her transformational incubator experience, she explains. Nine weeks. Private community. Lifetime access to the portal. Guest experts. A welcome gift.

Just 999 euros. Which, she wants you to know, is less than one month of making the wrong decision.

She is the wrong decision.

Chad “Actually...” Thompson

You asked a simple question. Chad read it, cracked his knuckles, and has been typing for eleven minutes.

“Actually...”

Chad is not here to answer your question. Chad is here to reframe your question, contextualize your question, and gently suggest that your question reveals a fundamental misunderstanding of French society, American foreign policy, and probably yourself as a person.

Chad’s love language is unsolicited correction. Chad has never met a sentence he could not improve. Chad is exhausting.

Debbie Down-the-Road

Debbie has lived in France for eleven years and has somehow become the official curator of disappointment.

You ask: “Thinking of moving to the South of France. Thoughts?”

Debbie appears immediately: “Well... just so you know...”

Then comes the list.

Healthcare? Nightmare. Friends? Impossible. Paperwork? Disaster. Weather? Too hot. Winter? Too cold. Markets? Crowded. Summer? Tourists. Tourists gone? Dead town.

Debbie could find a downside to winning the lottery.

“We bought a charming farmhouse once. Roof collapsed.”

“Tried a local festival. Parking nightmare.”

“Beautiful sunset though. Mosquitoes.”

Mostly Right Melissa

Melissa is the most dangerous person in the group because Melissa comes with receipts.

She explains the visa process correctly. Knows the healthcare timelines. Understands the tax system. Uses actual links. References personal experience without sounding like she personally wrote French law.

You think: “Finally. A sane person.”

Then, buried deep in paragraph four:

“Also, never schedule prefecture appointments on Tuesdays because Mercury retrograde affects administrative outcomes.”

Excuse me?

Or: “Everything else should go smoothly unless your dossier gets assigned to Jean.”

Who is Jean, Melissa? WHO IS JEAN?

Now you are spiraling because 99% of this was completely useful and 1% feels like someone slipped bath salts into the comment section.

Moral of the story: Summer has arrived in the south of France, the shutters are closed, the fans are running, and somewhere on the internet Carol is telling someone their Carte Vitale application is illegal. France, much like July in Carcassonne, requires that you learn to manage the heat. Close the shutters. Run the fans. Do not let the hot air in. Whether that hot air is coming through your east-facing windows at 10 am or through a Facebook comment at 2 pm, the strategy is the same: protect your peace, do your research, and for the love of all that is holy, talk to an actual professional.

This community, right here on Substack, has been the rare exception to all of the above. More useful, more honest, and significantly less unhinged than anywhere else I have found online. You can ask real questions here. Nobody is going to try to sell you a manifestation worksheet. I am grateful for every single one of you who keeps showing up.

Follow along on Instagram at @Le_Simple_Sudiste for more dispatches, delusions, and opinions about French bureaucracy that nobody asked for but everyone apparently needs.

If this made you laugh, consider buying me a coffee. Better yet, upgrade to a paid subscription for 5 dollars a month, which is honestly just that one coffee a month you are already buying yourself anyway, except this one comes with reading material and considerably more chaos.

Paid subscribers receive a copy of my guide, Moving to France: The Paperwork, The Panic, The Plan, for the Long Stay Visa. Annual subscribers also get my time directly. Moving to France and want to talk it through? Let’s chat one on one and get you off and running. No sales pitches, no homework, no spreadsheets, no hidden fees.

Now stop lurking and go restack this post. Carol needs to see it. She will tell you I am wrong about something. Maybe everything. Likely.

Final disclaimer: This was obviously all in good fun. If you see yourself in one of these personas or situations, please know I am also somewhere in these groups asking where to buy decent tortillas. Carry on.

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You know the moms. The ones crouching down to whisper, “I see you’re struggling to regulate right now,” while their child is fully upside down on the floor licking a shopping cart wheel with the confidence of someone who has never once been embarrassed. Those moms.

Anyway. Big feelings. I have them.

Quick disclaimer before we get into it. I am not a life coach, a relocation expert or someone who has figured any of this out. I am a person who moved to France, caught feelings about a Bastide and now has thoughts. These are my experiences and my observations only. I do not think my journey is better for getting involved.

Your journey abroad is yours and it gets to look however you need it to look. This entry is not unique to Carcassonne and spans anyone moving abroad and participating in their new community. I am not here to tell anyone what to do. I can barely tell myself what to do. I just write about it.

A restack goes a long way in helping support my work. I am grateful for your support. You can also click that little heart, comment or upgrade to a paid subscription.

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Sometimes I think it would just be easier not to care about things I cannot control. Just shrug, drink my coffee, stare dramatically out a French window and become one of those people who sighs “c’est la vie” while emotionally checking out of society entirely. Sounds peaceful honestly. Very chic. Very unbothered.

Then I remember I am physically incapable of being unbothered.

Because here is the thing. Maybe I do not need to lead change. Maybe I can just show up for it. Participate in it. Be useful to it. Give something back to it instead of just harvesting it for content.

Yuri and I were driving to the store recently and he asked if I was over Carcassonne. That is a complicated question to ask a person who processes emotions through five-mile hikes and Substack posts.

After sitting with it, and then having one of those unexpectedly deep hikes with a friend where you start talking about grocery store parking and somehow end up solving childhood trauma before mile three, I realized something.

I am not over Carcassonne.

What I realized is that I am reaching two years here next week. Two years. I lived in Seattle for two years. St. Paul for two years. And now here. Somewhere along the way my life became a documentary nobody renewed past Season Two and I just kept filming anyway.

I think it might be time to put the two-year curse to bed and grow some actual roots. Wild concept. Truly avant-garde of me.

But Yuri’s point was fair.

Do you really want to get this involved?

Imagine Michelle turning to Barack and saying, “Honey, could we maybe just watch TV tonight? Is it possible we do not save society after dinner? Just this once?”

Because we could genuinely do nothing. Go to the market. Travel. Eat croissants. Mind our business. It is a fully legal lifestyle option.

Also, to be clear, I am far less Barack Obama and far more Monica Geller with a clipboard and an unnecessary level of concern about things that somehow became my business. Nobody asked me to care this much and yet... here we are.

I moved to Carcassonne because I actually love it here. Not in a “this is a great backdrop for my French lifestyle content” way. In a real, actual, embarrassingly sincere way. And loving a place means you eventually have to ask yourself a very uncomfortable question.

What are you giving back?

Yes, it has trains and an airport. Yes, it is affordable. Yes, it sits perfectly between the beach and larger cities. Yes, I can get in my car and drive anywhere and enjoy the best of southern France whenever I want. All of that is real and I am grateful for every single bit of it.

But that is also how takers think.

What can this place give me?

And I did not move to France just to consume it like a very scenic buffet.

Okay, a little bit I did.

Part of living somewhere is maintaining it. Contributing to it. Caring about it like it belongs to you because, spoiler, eventually it does. If you choose a place, walk its streets every day, build routines there, watch your kid grow up there, it stops being a backdrop for your Instagram stories and starts being your home. And your home deserves more than your wifi password and your grocery list.

We owe something back.

Buy Me A Coffee

The Bastide in French towns is the charm. The heartbeat. The place where actual life happens between tourists posing in front of things and locals trying to buy bread in peace.

We cannot all stand around saying the restaurants are mediocre and the shopping is underwhelming and we do not really come here much anymore. Meanwhile every single Saturday happily driving forty minutes to somebody else’s Bastide.

Suddenly people are strolling ancient stone streets, buying artisanal jam from a woman named Claudine, sipping regional wine under fairy lights, posting seventeen Instagram stories captioned “this hidden gem” like they personally discovered medieval urban planning. They are buying their cheese. Shopping their markets. Photographing their shutters. Romanticizing their charming little squares.

Turns out these people absolutely care about Bastides. They just seem to care more when they belong to someone else and come with vacation energy.

We cannot mourn our own town center dying while treating every other town like a European theme park field trip. The call is coming from inside the Bastide.

Our Bastide struggles because businesses move to giant commercial zones with parking lots the size of small countries, and people say “who cares, it’s five minutes by car.” Which is technically true. Until the center dies.

Then tourists stop coming. Then people look around confused and ask what happened. Then everyone acts shocked, like they had no idea their downtown had been on life support for a decade while they were ordering from Amazon and driving to the hypermarché.

This is why the meeting with the maire hit me harder than I expected.

I walked in thinking we were presenting practical ideas. Markets. Public spaces. Cleaner streets. Sensible things. But somewhere between fifty slides and actually talking through what this town could become, I realized the conversation was about something much larger than logistics.

Because the second you stop asking what a place can give you and start asking what you can give back, your entire relationship with it changes. You stop acting like a customer and start acting like someone who actually lives there. And that shift, small and quiet as it sounds, changes everything.

Respect does not transfer with your luggage.

Not your LinkedIn title. Not your salary. Not your square footage back in America. Not the fact that you sold your house, packed seventeen suitcases, dragged children, pets, vitamins, probiotics and supplements across an ocean and somehow kept everyone alive.

You arrive exactly like everyone else.

As a stranger.

Strangers do not get belonging handed to them at the airport. They earn it. Slowly. By giving. Somewhere along the way I started noticing that there seems to be two kinds of people who move abroad.

People who spend their entire time asking what this place can give them.

And people who ask how they can contribute to it.

Now before anyone panics, I am not saying you need to book a room at city hall and launch yourself into community activism. Nobody is getting extra citizenship points for surviving fluorescent lighting and town meetings. Not even me.

Especially not me.

But in smaller communities, people notice things. They notice how you talk about a place. They notice if you only consume it. They notice whether you care. And there is a very specific expat phenomenon I keep watching play out.

People are desperate for authenticity until authenticity becomes inconvenient and dated.

They want the market and the old stone streets and the cafe culture and the charming shutters and the affordable wine and the lower cost of living and the dreamy Instagram content. Then six months later:

“The food selection is terrible.”

“The stores are always closed.”

“Why can’t anything be delivered tomorrow?”

“There is nothing to do here.”

Listen. Some complaints are completely fair. I have written entire novels disguised as Substack posts about French bureaucracy. I could deliver a TED Talk called “Forty-Two Reasons France Makes Me Question Civilization” and I would not even need notes.

But moving somewhere and immediately becoming a Yelp reviewer for an entire culture is a fascinating choice.

One star. Cobblestones uneven. Would not recommend.

The mayor meeting made me think about all of this.

I heard every version of why not to go. But then all of you showed up. The comments on that post were genuinely incredible. Thoughtful, funny, generous people with real ideas I had not considered. One person suggested meeting with opposition candidates, which was the most obvious thing in human history that somehow had not crossed our mind once. The community gave me back energy I did not know I had lost.

Meetings are now in the works. There will definitely be a Part Two.

While hiking, my friend Katy reminded me of something important. Every town in the world has problems. Move somewhere else and congratulations. You have just unlocked a brand new set of problems with different scenery and a fresh set of bureaucrats who cannot find your paperwork. Maybe none of this changes anything. Maybe in two years I am standing outside city hall holding a baguette and screaming “I WAS PROMISED THINGS” while a pigeon judges me silently from a medieval wall.

Entirely possible. Genuinely on the table.

But participating still matters.

Because if I choose to live here, raise Sonia here, and build an actual life here, I eventually lose the right to only consume this place. The deal changes. I owe something back. Not activism. Not suffering. Not a newsletter for the mayor. Just participation. Just giving as much as I take.

Because contribution can look very small and still count.

Support a local business. Join something. Volunteer once. Meet a neighbor. Pick up litter. Just care. That is it. Care about the place you chose.

There is another category worth naming though. The participation badge people. The ones who attend one market. Take one photo. Post one “living my European dream” carousel. Then later over wine: “The shopping is terrible. The city is always dirty. The restaurants are not that impressive.” Meanwhile you moved into somebody’s home. Not a lifestyle package. Not a subscription box. Someone’s actual home. That comes with some responsibilities that cannot be filtered out.

I want to spend my time around more givers. The people who ask what they can add instead of what they can extract. And weirdly enough those people seem to be the happiest ones too. Maybe because belonging actually works that way. You cannot consume your way into it. You have to give your way there.

So here is what I keep coming back to as I figure out how to give more than I take.

You do not get local status at immigration. The visa gets you residency. Participation gets you belonging. There is no express lane and no shortcut. Find small ways to turn things you already love into giving back. Read to kids. Join a cleanup. Help someone practice English. Become the unofficial neighborhood dog greeter. Tiny things count more than you think.

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Earn your complaints first. You can absolutely criticize where you live. But maybe attend one town meeting before you do it. Support a local business. Meet a neighbor. Nobody enjoys the new employee who shows up on their first day saying “at my last company we did it differently.” Sir, your badge still does not work. Sit down. Have a croissant. Contribute something first.

A town is not a lifestyle package. You did not order the “South of France Starter Pack” from Amazon with two-day delivery and a satisfaction guarantee. Places come with history, flaws, bureaucracy, pigeons, weirdness and the occasional inexplicable government form that requires a notarized document from 1987. Vacation France and Tuesday France are very different people.

Learn enough French to survive awkwardly. You have heard this. You will hear it again. Nobody expects perfection. Half my French interactions still rely heavily on confidence and elaborate hand gestures carrying the full weight of a sentence. But trying matters enormously. Our presentation to the maire…yes, it was in French. People notice effort far more than they notice mistakes.

Stop asking what there is to do and become part of the answer. Organize a playdate. Start a meetup. Volunteer. Join something. Nobody is arriving at your door with a clipboard and an itinerary for your European dream life. Participation is not a spectator sport. You have to actually leave the house.

Support the places you claim to love. You genuinely cannot mourn a dying town center while ordering everything online and driving to a commercial zone every weekend. The irony writes itself. The same people who say Carcassonne’s Bastide does not have much going on will wake up at seven in the morning on a Saturday and drive forty minutes to fall completely in love with someone else’s Bastide. Funny how that keeps happening.

Show up before you show off. A lot of people abroad collect experiences. Far fewer people give anything back to them. One creates content. The other creates community. And community does not require a sash or a title or a committee seat. It just requires giving a little more than you take.

Spread the love around. If you and your entire social group have been going to the same cafe every Saturday because Brenda likes table three with the good lighting, take your show on the road. Let businesses compete for your affection. You are, in fact, a person with options.

Tiny things matter more than they look. Hold a door. Pick up litter. Meet a neighbor. Bring cookies. Care in small ways. You do not need to save the city or get yourself elected to anything. Do not be the person who walks past garbage sitting outside your front door, nudges it with your foot and thinks, “Someone really should do something about that.” Plot twist. You are someone. Tiny acts are usually how communities get built anyway. Nobody starts a revolution. They just keep showing up and giving small things until one day something shifts.

Respect abroad is rented before it is owned. You build it slowly. Conversation by conversation. Favor by favor. Showing up repeatedly. Nobody hands you belonging like a welcome packet. You earn it quietly. And what you say about a place matters. How you talk about it matters. Those small comments and casual dismissals add up invisibly until one day you find yourself wondering why you do not feel at home yet. Respect works a little like a gym membership. Paying for it is not the same thing as showing up. And definitely not the same as giving anything back.

Moral of the story? Somewhere between the big feelings, the five-mile hikes, the late-night ideas, the mayor meeting and realizing I somehow care deeply about the future of a Bastide I have only lived in for two years, I figured something out.

Moving abroad is not just about finding a place that gives you better weather, lower prices, prettier streets and wine you can actually afford. Eventually all of that becomes normal. The novelty fades. The enchantment settles into Tuesday.

The real shift happens when you stop acting like a visitor collecting beautiful experiences and start asking what you can give back to the place that keeps giving to you. Because home stops being the place you came from and starts being the place you cared enough to show up for, give enough to, fight a little for, over and over until one morning you look around and think: oh no. I accidentally put down roots. In France. While arguing about a Bastide.

Entirely fine. Completely worth it.

Follow me on Instagram at Le_Simple_Sudiste for more tales of French bureaucracy, emotional support baguettes and my ongoing campaign to accidentally become involved in local politics.

If you want to support my writing, buy me a coffee or upgrade for five dollars a month. Think of it as buying me one coffee a month, except I promise to spend it spiraling about France and writing about it for your entertainment.

Paid subscribers receive my guide Moving to France: The Paperwork, The Panic, The Plan, and annual subscribers get one-on-one time with me if you are planning your own move.

Now go restack this post before I schedule myself another meeting and accidentally become deputy mayor.

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The truth is I am not even sure where to start with this post because my brain has basically been hosting its own 24 hour French political talk show since the meeting. What do people want to know? How do I inject our usual expat chaos and humor into a conversation about politics, policing, dog poop, and the future of a city? How do I keep the tone light when the subject itself feels heavy enough to qualify as checked baggage on Ryanair?

Because yes, this is serious. But also, welcome to my life where one minute I am discussing the normalization of the far right and the next minute I am showing the maire photos of a dog skinny dipping in a public fountain while police officers stand nearby looking spiritually unavailable.

France really said range.

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I wrote a few months ago about him being elected. At the time, he announced he would be opening his doors to residents and inviting people to come engage directly with him. Honestly? I respected that. You cannot say “come talk to me” and then expect everyone arriving at city hall to hand you macarons and compliments. He knew full well he would get criticism along with support and he still opened the doors anyway.

The moment I mentioned publicly that I planned to meet with him, the messages started flooding in.

“You’re wasting your time.”
“He’s a racist.”
“He surrounds himself with Nazis.”
“He’s going to lie to your face.”
“He hates immigrants.”
“He hates families like yours.”
“You’re exactly the kind of person they don’t want here.”

You know. Casual lighthearted bedtime reading.

But here is the thing. Two things can absolutely be true at once.

I can be deeply concerned about the normalization of the far right, about attacks on unions and associations, about broader political trends happening across France and Europe. That matters. It should matter.

I can also live here, care deeply about this city, and want the Bastide to improve while this administration is in office because whether people like it or not, he is the maire for the next seven years.

Seven years is a LONG time.

Sonia is six. By the end of his term she will be thirteen. THIRTEEN. She will be rolling her eyes at me in fluent French while asking for skincare products I cannot afford. In the amount of time he could potentially be maire, I managed to move across the United States twice, leave Amazon, move internationally, survive French bureaucracy, and emotionally recover from trying to assemble IKEA furniture with translated instructions.

Seven years is not “let’s wait and see.”
Seven years is a whole era.

And if the Bastide continues declining during that time, we all live with the consequences of that decline regardless of who we voted for.

I do not want Sonia growing up surrounded by abandoned storefronts, empty streets, crumbling spaces, and a city center everyone slowly gives up on because people became so ideologically dug in they stopped talking to each other entirely.

Engaging with city hall about trash, dog poop, storefronts, safety, lighting, scooters trying to recreate Fast and Furious: Bastide Drift, and police responsiveness is not the same thing as giving anyone a moral blank check. It is not endorsing every policy, every alliance, or every political ideology.

It is saying: “Hey. We live here. This matters. Please do something.”

And listen, I completely understand why some people refuse to engage. That is their right. I respect it.

But sitting out has consequences too.

You do not change cities from your couch while angrily typing into Facebook groups. If only certain voices show up, then only certain voices are heard.

For me, this was never about polishing anyone’s image. It was about putting resident concerns directly in front of the people currently in power and making those concerns harder to ignore. And if promises are made? Wonderful. We write them down. We repeat them back later. We hold people accountable.

That is citizenship. Even when it is uncomfortable.

I also do not see supporting unions, associations, and civil society groups as being in conflict with pushing the mairie on practical day to day issues. Both things matter. Both deserve energy.

This entire situation is complicated. There is no perfect moral purity handbook for “How To Navigate Local Politics As A Gay American Expat Dad In Southern France.” Believe me. I checked.

But I would rather be in the room saying uncomfortable things in broken French than outside the room assuming someone else will.

And honestly? I do think it matters that people like us show up.

I need him to see families that look like mine and realize we are not some abstract political talking point. We are just people raising a kid, paying taxes, worrying about safety, complaining about scooters, and trying to stop our city from looking like the set of a zombie apocalypse movie filmed behind a boulangerie.

So yes, during the meeting I casually mentioned that my husband and I are raising our daughter here. I did not make it the centerpiece of the conversation. I simply explained why I care so much about the Bastide and why I had a vested interest in its future.

He heard “husband.”
He heard “daughter.”
And then we kept talking.

Because the real star of the evening was not me anyway.

It was the 50 page PDF presentation I created like some deranged former Amazon creative director who accidentally redirected all his corporate energy into municipal trash strategy.

And let me tell you something. THAT got their attention.

Suddenly I was no longer just another resident showing up to complain about problems they already knew existed. I came in with visual concepts, proposals, funding ideas, engagement campaigns, mockups, revitalization plans, beautification ideas, tourism strategies, and enough slides to trigger PTSD in every middle manager who has ever survived a quarterly business review.

At one point they said, “Yes but these things take money.”

And Katy and I basically replied, “Funny you should mention that because slide 37 would LOVE a moment.”

Honestly? They seemed genuinely engaged. They kept wanting to go page by page. At one point I thought we might all collectively move into the conference room and start paying rent there.

We talked about the dog poop situation first because obviously we did. Welcome to France where every beautiful medieval street also comes with the possibility of stepping directly into sadness.

They fully agreed it is a major problem.

We discussed how police enforcement feels inconsistent and how behavior will not change if there are never consequences. They explained new enforcement measures are coming, including fines for owners who fail to carry dog bags or pick up after their pets.

I also showed them a photo I had recently taken of police officers standing around chatting while a dog played off leash in a fountain nearby.

I said, “If residents constantly see lack of engagement, how are they supposed to take enforcement seriously?”

Sorry to those officers in the photo. You are now part of my municipal performance art project.

Then we discussed the noise issue from Sunday when I called the police four separate times over an eight hour disturbance and nobody came.

I explained how frustrating it feels when residents are told to trust the system while simultaneously feeling ignored by it.

To their credit, they took notes immediately and acknowledged the concern.

We also talked about safety at night because lately the Bastide after dark can feel less “picturesque French city” and more “Mario Kart but everyone has unresolved emotional issues.”

I mentioned how I recently walked home late and did not see a single officer anywhere in the city center while scooters flew past pedestrians at approximately 900 kilometers an hour.

Apparently the previous administration had shifted officers away from evening Bastide patrols to outer areas, but they told us police presence would soon return at night and remain active until 3am to address graffiti, safety concerns, and disturbances.

So we will see.

Then we moved into one of the biggest frustrations both Katy and I have about the city which is the canal area near where we live.

The Canal du Midi should be magical. It should be one of the crown jewels of the city experience. Instead, parts of it currently look like a group project between litter, weeds, and dog poop.

And strangely, one of the biggest things I learned during the meeting was that the city itself does not fully control that area.

The canal zones are managed by an organization called Voies Navigables de France, also known as VNF, which operates under the French state and oversees waterways and related infrastructure.

Meaning the maire cannot simply snap his fingers and send in city crews to redesign or clean the space permanently. It requires cooperation between VNF, the Agglo, the department, tourism bodies, the region, and sometimes even UNESCO related oversight because of the Canal du Midi’s heritage status.

Honestly, I had no idea.

I think many locals probably do not know that either. We just see trash and think, “Why does nobody clean this up?” Meanwhile France has apparently created seventeen overlapping agencies and a ceremonial goat committee before anyone is legally allowed to move a bench.

Then there is the trash issue itself.

We learned the waste management agency currently overseeing bins and trash collection is in leadership transition, with a new president arriving next month. The maire said they plan to meet to discuss the lack of bins along the canal paths because right now there are barely any.

And honestly? Of course people leave trash everywhere when there is nowhere to put it.

Again, another reminder that these problems are often far more layered than residents realize.

And to be fair, this administration has only been in power for two months.

The maire also explained that much of the countryside had been prioritized first because rural communities felt neglected by the previous administration.

What I heard was: “The farmers who voted for me got upgraded before the Bastide.”

But alright. Fine. Politics is politics.

He said Bastide focused efforts would begin ramping up next month.

Then we talked money.

Because obviously every revitalization conversation eventually becomes: “That sounds lovely but with what euros exactly?”

Well.

Katy and I had thoughts.

Fine abandoned properties that are left deteriorating.
Fine businesses whose customers leave trash everywhere nightly.
Fine people who let weeds take over sidewalks.
Install speed cameras for the amateur Formula 1 drivers treating my street like the Monaco Grand Prix after three Red Bulls and a breakup text.

Apparently many of those things are already being discussed.

We also discussed tourism taxes which are currently incredibly low in Carcassonne compared to many other French cities. Increasing them even modestly could potentially generate millions for beautification and infrastructure while still keeping the city competitive regionally.

So yes. There are solutions.

And this is where things became honestly kind of fun.

Because I did not just bring complaints.

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I brought concepts.

I visually reimagined neglected storefronts as art installations.
I mocked up abandoned spaces transformed into pop up shops.
I created examples of music nights, food activations, artisan markets, cooling stations, family gathering areas, and community spaces.

I wanted them to SEE possibility instead of just hearing complaints.

One of my favorite concepts involved abandoned storefronts along major walking corridors into the Bastide. Right now many sit dark, filthy, and depressing. We suggested working with owners to clean windows, improve façades, and temporarily install local artwork or creative displays inside.

The spaces can still remain available for rent. But visually? The psychological impact changes completely.

A cared for city feels alive.
An abandoned city feels contagious.

We also discussed temporary pop ups for entrepreneurs.

Maybe someone dreams of opening a donut shop.
LET THEM TRY.

Give them a month.
Let them test.
Let people gather.
Let something happen.

A lively city attracts investment. Empty streets repel it.

We also suggested using vacant city owned spaces for local products, tourism overflow, music nights, food events, and experiences that serve residents year round instead of only focusing on tourists during peak season.

Because people who live here all year also deserve joy. Revolutionary concept, I know.

And honestly, the more we talked, the more obvious it became that revitalization is not one giant magical project. It is hundreds of tiny decisions layered on top of each other over time.

Better lighting.
Cleaner sidewalks.
More events.
Fewer abandoned spaces.
Safer nights.
More activity.
More pride.

Little things compound.

Which is also why Katy and I are now exploring grassroots cleanup efforts ourselves.

Because frankly? Waiting around for government alone to solve everything feels like waiting for French administration paperwork to move quickly. It is simply not a strategy grounded in reality.

We want to organize resident cleanup days, involve businesses, bring visibility to neglected areas, and encourage more community pride.

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Will trash return?
Probably.

Will someone complain online while contributing absolutely nothing?
Almost certainly.

But trying matters.

And honestly, bringing Sonia along matters too. I want her to grow up understanding that citizenship is participation. Pride in where you live starts small.

Will the maire actually implement anything from my presentation deck? I truly do not know.

Maybe none.
Maybe one idea.
Maybe several.

But what I do know is that visuals matter.

People constantly complain about cities in abstract ways. I wanted to physically show what transformation could look like. What possibility could feel like.

And yes, I understand why many people do not want the RN to succeed in any capacity because they fear what broader success politically could mean.

I understand that fear deeply.

But I also believe cities cannot simply be allowed to decay out of ideological stalemate.

The human spirit has to be bigger than that.

In the end, they thanked us repeatedly for coming, for the effort we put in, for presenting solutions instead of only criticism, and for engaging respectfully and meaningfully.

And when an entire room full of officials asks if they can keep your presentation to share internally, I am sorry but the former Amazon creative director in me absolutely blacked out for a second and whispered: “Oh she still got it.”

Turns out I do still have a little of that career in me after all.

As someone who is left of center, yes I know, shocking to some of you that I am not hiding in a candlelit Paris apartment reading socialist manifestos while eating ethically sourced lentils, I was really struck recently by something Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez said:

“Presidents, and elected seats come and go. But social systems, women’s rights, living wages, they are forever. I get to wake up every day and say, how am I going to meet the moment. Conditions change radically all the time. I make decisions by waking up in the morning looking out the window and observing the conditions of this country and saying what move or what decision can I make today that is going to get us closer to that future, stronger faster, better than yesterday?”

That really stayed with me.

Because I am not special. I do not want political office. I am not some expert people should blindly follow.

I just like people.
I like ideas.
I like cities.
I like talking.
I like imagining better possibilities.

And I genuinely hope things improve here.

I hope the RN in France is not the same trajectory as the MAGA movement I left behind in America. I hope engagement matters. I hope showing up matters.

And honestly? I think the maire does want residents to engage or he would not be opening the doors at all.

Because at the end of the day, if the city improves, residents benefit.

That is the point.

We all share the sidewalks.
We all share the schools.
We all step in the same dog poop.

So maybe the real goal is simply this: leave the place a little better than we found it and make enough noise while doing it that someone in power has to listen.

Follow along on Instagram at @Le_Simple_Sudiste for more French misadventures, municipal chaos, expat nonsense, and occasional emotional damage caused by French administrative paperwork.

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You know what nobody puts in the “moving to France” brochure? Doctor appointments. Specifically, the moment your entire personality evaporates the second a French doctor asks you to take your clothes off and then just... stands there. Watching. Like they’re waiting for a bus.

You freeze. Did they say all of it? Just to the underwear? Was that even about clothes? Maybe they just want me to come to the table. So you start slowly unbuttoning, doing this very casual, very undignified peek-and-check to see if they stop you. Reading the room at half-mast, literally. Just me? Absolutely not just me.

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The first time this happened I was at the massage therapist. I walked in, he said okay, take all your clothes off and hop on the table, and I stood there thinking: right here? You’re not leaving? In America, they leave the room. You have a moment. You remove your socks with what little dignity God gave you, arrange the towel like you’re staging a photo shoot, and wait. In France? He was already at the sink washing his hands while I was still trying to figure out where to put my pants. In retrospect, he had a point. He was going to see me anyway. Why the theater? But still. A curtain. ONE curtain. That’s all I’m asking for.

It happened again last week.

I am coming up on three years, which in adult math means it is colonoscopy season. And friends, getting a colonoscopy in France when you do not speak fluent medical French and your doctor speaks very optimistic English is an experience I will carry with me always. Picture this: you walk in, you try to explain your situation, and the doctor leans forward with great confidence and says, “Ah yes, the... how you say... bottom tunnel inspection. We look inside your... the cave.” The cave. She called it the cave. I have never felt more like a geological survey.

If you are planning a move abroad and you are anywhere in the 40 to 50 range, please for the love of all things holy, get this handled before you leave. Consider this your loving, slightly traumatized reminder.

Since I am due every three years I needed to set a 2027 appointment now, which meant navigating this in French. I printed all my documents from my last appointment in the States, highlighted the important parts, and walked in prepared. Organized. Calm. A man with a plan.

She asked a few questions and then said, “Let’s go over to the table.” My brain heard: showtime. And it was absolutely going to be both kinds of showtime if you catch my drift.

She said, in French, take your clothes off. I was pretty sure that’s what she said, but I started unbuttoning slowly with the full deer-in-headlights energy of a man asking, are we doing this? She walked over, grabbed my waistband and said, “you can leave these on for your comfort.”

Nothing about any of this was comfort.

Now if you have been in this setting before you know. You know. Once a medical professional has seen that particular region of your body, the social contract is permanently rewritten. I know you are thinking, is Rich really out here painting a full impressionist portrait of his colonoscopy prep? Yes. Yes he is. Because we have all been there. Most of us.

This is the moment you realize you have crossed a threshold. You are no longer a person with mystery. You are simply an adult. A fully known, fully examined adult who once held their dignity like a delicate heirloom and then handed it over to a stranger in a lab coat while a ceiling light buzzed softly overhead.

My female readers are already typing: oh honey. You have absolutely no idea. I know. I KNOW. I am not making this a competition. I am simply reporting from the field.

After the appointment you leave the room clutching your little printout like it is a winning Powerball ticket, walk up to the reception desk, and the woman behind the counter says: “ordonnance.” You nod. You have no idea if she means prescription, orthodontist referral, or some kind of formal declaration. A 50/50 guess at best.

She sighs. You have the face. You know the face. The lost expat face that says I understood the word “and” and I am doing my best. And then it gets worse, because you reach for your carte vitale and realize you left it in your husband’s wallet, and your husband left that at home.

Wonderful.

You ask if you can run home and get it quickly. She says no, she will just print it and you can mail it to the social security office for reimbursement. The image of what that actually looks like in practice flashes before your eyes like a cautionary vision, and you say, no, I will be right back, and you are out the door before she can say another word.

Which reminds me: I still need to go back and pay for that appointment. Today. Like right now actually.

American healthcare is a capitalism haunted house where the jump scares are all billing related. French healthcare is a slow art film where nobody explains what is happening, the doctor disappears for lunch at a completely normal time, and somehow you walk out having paid 10 euros for better care than you got back home. You are mildly confused and oddly grateful and you can afford dinner.

Most days anyway.

If you move to a small town in France, your specialist is in another town. Often a big one. Often far. If you are lucky enough to have a specialist locally you might wait a year to see them, which means you spend a lot of time having very honest conversations with yourself about how urgent this actually is.

Healthcare becomes regional tourism. One minute you need a dermatologist, the next you are driving through vineyards, pulling over for a wine tasting in a medieval hilltop village, and asking yourself, does my skin situation actually require a professional opinion or is this fine?

Last year I went to the dentist for an infection in a tooth I had a root canal on twenty years ago. They removed the crown, redid the work, and put on a temporary. Fine. These things happen. But then every few months the temporary breaks, I go back, they put on a new one, and when I ask why we are not just doing the permanent crown already they do not have a great answer.

This has been going on for a year. A year of temporary crowns. A year of cat and mouse. A year of me walking out of appointments with a crown that has the structural integrity of a optimistic thought.

Last visit she tells me there is still an infection. I cannot feel it. She cannot explain it. And now she needs me to see a specialist in Toulouse before she can move forward. I asked: why have we not tried any medication to address this infection?

The answer was simply: go to the specialist. I am going to Toulouse. I have feelings about this that I do not have the French to fully express, and honestly it is probably for the best. My French is not good enough for the speech I would like to give. It protects everyone.

But here is the thing nobody tells you when you are researching your move abroad. You budget for language classes and shipping containers and visa fees. You think about which region has the best markets and the most charm.

What you do not fully account for is starting your entire healthcare story over from scratch, in another language, in a system that works completely differently, in a place where your doctor might be wonderful but is booked out six months and lives thirty minutes away.

We drive twenty minutes to see our generalist and we feel genuinely lucky because many people around us cannot find a doctor accepting new patients at all.

Need a cardiologist? Wonderful. There is one. She is in a village you have never heard of, her next opening is in four months, and getting there requires passing through three more villages you have never heard of, one of which has a Sunday market that is genuinely not to be missed.

Nobody in France is rushing, even when you are spiraling. American healthcare feels like a panic attack with a $400 copay. French healthcare is your medical malfunction waiting patiently behind lunch and a cigarette. You walk in convinced Google has diagnosed you with something terminal and the doctor looks up calmly and says, “we will monitor that.” Monitor what? My slow unraveling? The cave? What exactly are we monitoring?

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Medical French is not real French. You spend months learning how to order wine and ask where the bathroom is. You feel pretty good about yourself. Then you walk into a doctor’s office and your brain leaves your body entirely. You smile and nod through the whole appointment understanding roughly every fourth word and praying none of them are “urgent” or “surgery” or “cave.”

French doctors are extremely comfortable with the human body. American doctors leave the room so you can undress in privacy like you are Victorian royalty removing a corset.

French doctors will continue typing on their computer while saying, completely casually: “okay, pants off.” No curtain. No ceremony. No moment for you to emotionally prepare. And then a strange thing happens after the third or fourth time this occurs. You stop caring. Your dignity quietly packs a small bag, books a one-way flight back to America, and leaves without saying goodbye. You are free now. Nakedly, medically, irreversibly free.

The pharmacy is your first line of defense and sometimes your only one. French pharmacists do not play. You walk in with one question and you leave with a diagnosis, three product recommendations, a small lecture, a tube of something, a box of something else, herbal tea, moral support, and a look that says they are rooting for you.

And if you bring in foraged mushrooms, God help you. The entire pharmacist profession has decided that mushroom identification is their calling. They will examine your basket like you personally walked in holding a small explosive device.

“This one? Deadly.” “This one? Possibly fine.” “This one? You will know within forty minutes.” “This one? Excellent with butter and a little shallot.”

Your carte vitale becomes the most precious object you own. Nothing humbles an adult faster than forgetting a small green card. Forget your wallet? Recoverable. Forget your child somewhere? You go get them. Forget your carte vitale? Full collapse. You will check your pockets every fifteen minutes because without that card you feel medically exposed, emotionally unmoored, and strangely like you do not exist.

The waiting room is its own social contract. You walk in and say bonjour to everyone because this is France and that is simply what you do, even though you would never acknowledge these same people on the street.

French waiting rooms also operate on a timeline that no one controls or questions. Your appointment is at 10. Will you be seen at 10? At 11? Next Thursday? Nobody knows. The extraordinary part is nobody complains. People sit quietly reading magazines from 2016 while you deteriorate mentally next to an artificial ficus tree and a poster about cholesterol.

French dentistry exists in two timelines at once. The office looks like 1987. The care is actually excellent. Your dentist may disappear mid-cleaning to take a phone call and return as if no time has passed while you lie there with your mouth open questioning the nature of reality. Finding an English-speaking dentist in a small town is its own athletic event. But a full dental X-ray for 23 euros? That’s practically a gift basket.

Moral of the story: Despite all of it, you end up loving it. You walk out of your 10 euro colonoscopy prep appointment, cards temporarily missing, dignity permanently relocated, having shown your everything to a complete stranger in a perfectly lit room, and you think: okay but I can afford groceries tonight.

You think about the pharmacist who spent twenty-five minutes with you over a rash. You think about the doctor who actually sat with you, talked to you, did not glance at a clock. You think about the vineyards you passed on the way to the specialist. The wine you bought because you were already there. The castle you googled afterward.

It is messy. It is slow. It is occasionally being grabbed by the waistband by a stranger who is trying to make you feel comfortable about what is about to happen. But it is human. Deeply, frustratingly, expensively affordable, nakedly human. And somewhere between the paper forms and the cave references and the mushroom interrogations, it starts to feel like yours.

Most days anyway.

Follow along on Instagram @Le_Simple_Sudiste for more dispatches from the midi, including the ongoing saga of my temporary crown and my continued search for the phrase “I would like a second opinion” in French without sounding rude.

If this made you laugh or cringe or nod or all three at once, consider buying me a coffee. Or better yet, upgrade for $5 a month and think of it as the one coffee a month you buy yourself but this time it comes with actual content instead of a mild caffeine dependency.

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Now go restack this so someone else can feel less alone about their cave.

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This month marks two years in France. Two. Years. I would like a medal, a baguette, and a small parade through the Bastide, but instead I have a slightly better accent and a deep emotional relationship with my shutters. It is wild to think we have survived and thrived since moving to Carcassonne.

I have written about this before, but now with a little distance and a lot more humility, I feel like it is time to revisit who we actually become after the move. And more importantly, the questions you really need to ask yourself before you take the leap.

Everyone romanticizes a European lifestyle. We all do it. You land with your 14 days of PTO, suddenly you are the main character in a Nancy Meyers film.

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You sip wine on some promenade like you have been doing it your whole life. You are swirling a spritz on the Italian coast like you personally invented Aperol. You are nibbling a charcuterie board in Aix acting like cheese is a personality trait. You stroll through a garden in London pretending you understand monarchy. You hike Cinque Terre, turn dramatically to your partner, hair blowing in the wind, and say, should we just buy a house here and live out our days. Meanwhile your calves are cramping and you are one wrong step away from tumbling into the sea. Just me?

I get it. It was me. Hi. I am that guy. The one who wants to live everywhere, commit to nothing, and collect countries like they are stamps. I can feel the itch creeping back in. What is next. Where else could we go. I am complex.

One minute I am begging Yuri to move to the countryside and raise chickens. He would rather stand in the street waiting for a meteor to hit him. The next minute I am ready to move to a big city, disappear into the crowd, and have nobody speak English to me ever again like some kind of dramatic identity cleanse.

Will we move. No. Maybe. I don’t think so. We are good where we are. Though I do have those moments where I wonder if Carcassonne is enough to inspire Sonia to dream bigger and eventually leave. And then I remember I grew up in small town Iowa and somehow made it across the US and then landed in France. That child has a personality that could power a small city. She is going nowhere small. If anything, I will be the one chasing her with snacks and unsolicited advice.

While we cannot afford to move to a big city, yes I would move to Paris in a heartbeat, I do play this little mental game of should we move closer to one. And then I remember Toulouse is literally right around the corner from us. Under an hour. The problem is not geography. The problem is me not booking the train. I am now flirting with the idea of warmer winters. Yes, it might mean Sonia misses a bit more school. But travel is education.

I romanticize France a lot less now than I did from the US. That fantasy has shifted. Now I catch myself daydreaming about the Spanish coast or an Italian villa like I am in a low budget remake of Under the Tuscan Sun. And then reality taps me on the shoulder. Life. Taxes. Government. Starting over. Another language when I just figured out how to get through a basic conversation without panic sweating. It is a lot.

Recently I saw a post on FB asking if you really need to learn the language and integrate to be successful abroad. My immediate thought was, “do not move! You are not ready if that is the question you’re asking.” That is like asking if you need water to swim.

The real question is who are you when everything familiar is gone? Who are you without your job? Why are you doing this? What do you actually want? Is this a dream or just a trendy box you are trying to check between Pilates and a green juice?

Getting our visa was easy. Yes, there was paperwork. Yes, we sold our life and planned like we were launching a small startup. But have you tried setting up your life once you get here? Buying. Renting. Utilities. Insurance. Doctors. Etc. You will look back fondly on the days you thought waiting for your birth certificate was the hard part. That was the tutorial level.

We were fortunate to buy our home before moving. Was it luck. Was it the universe saying go ahead, you are ready, here is your slightly crooked dream house. I do not know. But walking off the plane and into our own space, even half set up and mildly chaotic, was a gift.

Most people do not do that. They rent. Which is smart. They move into an Airbnb or a rental they were lucky to find. Often furnished, often questionable, often dirty, and often making you question your life choices at 2 am. But this is also part of it. You embrace it. You laugh. You cry. You clean things you never wanted to touch. You grow. You get on with it.

We jumped in fast. Very on brand for me. I arrived, noticed every imperfection in our home and then had to check myself. This is character. This is charm. This is also a wall that is slightly not straight but we are going to call it European. We got out. We made friends. We found our people. And slowly we figured out who we were without jobs, without titles, without that daily gold star.

Turns out doing nothing is actually something. Who knew.

But I have also watched people arrive and unravel. It is not what they imagined. They miss everything. Their house. Their job. Their routine. Their identity. And instead of adapting, they wrap themselves in a blanket, turn on Netflix, and declare the entire country the problem. The walls are wrong. The neighbors are too friendly or not friendly enough. The bread is too fresh. It becomes their personality.

These are the people who think money will fix it. “I will just pay someone. I will just hire someone. I will just throw euros at it until it feels like home.” But they did not think beyond the transaction of getting here. They are not participating in their new life. They have not built anything yet. And you cannot outsource belonging.

Do not be these people.

We had about a year to plan, which of course I turned into six months because patience is not my brand. Strong bias for action, thank you very much, straight out of my old life. Every night I sat in the hot tub after Sonia went to bed, phone in hand, spiraling productively. Researching everything. Moving pets. Buying homes. Learning the language. Making lists. Saving links. Joining forums. Planning how I would fill my time when I no longer had a 9 to 5.

Retirement sounds great. It is also a full time job. Surprise.

Yes, I know. Poor me. Retired at 50. Life is hard. I am aware of how lucky I am. But it does not remove the reality that when you leave a structured life, time becomes this big open space and you have to decide what to do with it. And sitting on the couch all day will not fulfill you. It will relax you. And then slowly unravel you. Balance.

I was thinking about the time I moved to San Francisco on Christmas Eve. One-way ticket. No plan, no job, no place to live. Just me and a sublet I had locked down for a month like that was somehow a personality trait and not a red flag.

I cried a lot that first night. Like full main character meltdown. Scared. Spiraling. What have I done to my life. Who let me do this. Where is my mother.

And then somewhere between the tears and the mild regret, I made a deal with myself. You get one night. That is it. One night to feel everything. Be dramatic. Question your life choices. Stare at the ceiling like you are in an indie film. Maybe eat something questionable because obviously that helps.

But tomorrow, you get up. You go outside. And you start your new life.

No extensions. No bonus crying sessions. Curtain up. Showtime. And I did. I met Yuri two weeks later.

Moving abroad has that same energy. You will have moments where you feel lost, scared, overwhelmed, all of it. Let yourself feel it. But do not live there. Set the timer. Get up. Keep going. This is the life you dreamed about. Now build it with a little less fantasy and a little more reality.

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So here are the questions you need to ask yourself before you move abroad. And yes, some of them are going to hit a nerve.

Who are you without your job?
If your identity is your title, your salary, your Slack notifications, your quick syncs, what happens when that disappears? There are no performance reviews abroad. No one is clapping because you answered an email. It is just you in a bakery trying to remember how to ask for a baguette without panicking and accidentally ordering six. Sit with that.

Why are you actually moving?
Be honest. Painfully honest. If you are running from something, it is coming with you. Always. This is not a personality reboot. It is you, same brain, same habits, same baggage, just now in a different country with customer service that will test your will to live.

Are you okay being bad at everything for a while?
Language. Systems. Social cues. Grocery stores. Healthcare. Mail. All of it. You will feel like an adult who somehow forgot how to exist. You will get things wrong. Often. Sometimes publicly. Sometimes loudly. If you need to feel competent at all times, this will humble you immediately.

Can you handle not being special?
Back home you were established. Known. Maybe even impressive. Here you are just another foreigner trying to figure it out. No one is impressed that you figured out recycling. If anything they are impressed you finally stopped doing it wrong.

Are you willing to build a life, not just consume one?
You cannot just show up and vibe. You have to build some routines. Relationships. Community. You have to leave your house. Talk to people. Show up awkwardly. Try again. Netflix is not a personality. Isolation hits harder here. Do not let your worst quirks thrive and become your new identity.

Can you be social even when it is uncomfortable?
Small towns remember everything. Your reputation is not optional. You are the new person. The foreigner. The one people notice immediately. If you are not willing to engage, smile, try the language, this will feel lonely very fast.

Are you okay living with imperfection?
This is not a glossy renovation show. Houses have quirks. Floors slope. Windows draft. Heating is more of a suggestion. You will manage your home temperature like a medieval sun scientist opening and closing shutters all day. It is a lifestyle you should embrace.

Can you stop throwing money at problems?
Because that will not always work. Things take time. Systems move slowly. Urgent is a flexible concept. You cannot fast track everything. You will wait. A lot. Build patience or lose your mind. Hire someone to do your taxes, not fill out your carte vitale forms.

Are you prepared for your mental health to take a hit sometimes?
There will be days where everything feels harder than it should. Communication breaks down. You feel isolated. You question everything. You consider throwing your phone into a canal. It happens. At some point, if everything feels like the problem, you have to check in with yourself. That is not failure. That is awareness.

What does a good life actually look like to you?
Remove the fantasy. No constant travel. No perfect cafés. Just regular life. School runs. Groceries. Bills. Neighbors. Weather. Routine. If that still sounds appealing, you might be ready.

Moral of the story: You will never be fully prepared for life abroad. You can plan. You can research. You can manifest your little heart out. And then you land and life humbles you in a bakery line. Two years in, I am no longer thinking like a visitor. I feel like I belong here. And ironically, now that I feel settled, I am back to romanticizing somewhere else. Because apparently growth is just a loop.

If there is one thing I know, it is this. You do not move abroad to find a new life. You move abroad to meet yourself in a completely new way. Sometimes that version of you is thriving. Sometimes he is crying over a broken appliance and a confusing bill. Both are valid.

So prepare what you can. Laugh at what you cannot. And remember, the dream is not the highlight reel. The dream is the ordinary life you build once the novelty wears off.

Follow along on Instagram at @Le_Simple_Sudiste for more chaos, questionable decisions, and aggressively honest takes on expat life.

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We had just left the farmers market. It was one of those rare Saturday mornings where I had nowhere to be and all day to get there. Yuri had gone off to the gym so I said to Sonia, let’s go to the farmers market, channel our inner Meghan Markle and curate a soft, aspirational life moment with strawberries and rhubarb like we’re about to casually host a garden brunch.

Sonia loves baking shows. Like deeply committed, emotionally invested, ready to judge grown adults kind of love. I’ll find her on the iPad watching Nailed It! asking if we can make a cake that looks like a melted princess castle mid-evacuation. I told her this weekend we’d aim for scones and jam if the universe was on our side. Manage expectations early. Off we went. By the way, I failed.

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When we arrived we ran into the mayor of Carcassonne and I told Sonia to go say hi. She immediately forgot how to speak. I stepped in, said hello, shook his hand, did my best “I am a functioning adult” impression and off we went. Side bar, I have a one hour meeting scheduled with him in two weeks. Will he remember me? Unclear. Will I remind him? Aggressively. Don’t worry, I will be reporting back like your favorite mildly unhinged local correspondent.

We wandered the market, picked up what we needed, Yuri met up with us, we ran into friends, shared strawberries with the kids by the fountain before heading home. This is what I love about small town France. You don’t leave the house, you enter a live episode of Who Do You Know Today.

We promised Sonia we would stop by the local fromagerie on the way home. I like to support him because he has an actual storefront and if I am being honest he always gives Sonia a piece of chèvre for free. That is not a business model, that is emotional manipulation and it works. I grabbed some pecorino with peppercorns which I highly recommend if you enjoy cheese that bites back, and we headed across the street to Pâtisserie Papineau for a baguette.

Picture it. There I was minding my business, standing outside while Yuri and Sonia went in to order. I was on my phone, which is exactly where you will find me in most life situations, scrolling like I was about to discover something life changing. Then I heard WHAM followed by something barely audible. A soft whimper. A thin, fragile cry that almost disappeared into the air before it fully arrived.

I look down behind me. A tiny older woman, face down on the sidewalk, shopping trolley dramatically behind her like a prop. Suddenly I am now in a low budget action film titled American Man Tries His Best.

I spring into action with my finest “désolée pour mon français.” I crouch down, grab her arm like I’ve completed several seasons of medical training and whisper “ça va?” with the confidence of someone who absolutely does not know what comes next. Traffic stops. People jump out of their cars. It’s a full production.

She’s bleeding so I run into the boulangerie yelling serviette which thankfully I do know because I have been carb loading my way through France for two years. They hand me napkins and a bottle of water. I run back out like a hero returning from battle.

And then. For reasons I cannot explain other than chaos, adrenaline, and a complete lack of brain function, I take the bottle and pour it on her.

Not near her. Not offered to her. On her.

At this point we have a full cast. A woman has appeared holding a baguette like she’s about to narrate the entire event. Someone else is watching from the doorway like this is better than Netflix. And there is me. Holding a half empty bottle of water and crumpled napkins like I just performed a miracle.

Reader, I did not perform a miracle. I lightly baptized a stranger.

Now fully unbothered, she thanks everyone, including me, the accidental lifeguard of dry land. A younger French couple steps in, gets her seated, restores order, dignity, and dryness. And just like that, she grabs her trolley and continues on her way. Falling in public was simply an inconvenience. A scheduling hiccup. Something to mention later over coffee.

And that’s the thing. These women are everywhere. Strong, unbothered, resilient. Yuri always says if I could do life over I’d come back as an old French woman. Honestly, yes.

They sit in cafés gossiping. They say things like “I heard she likes a drink” with the gravity of a courtroom verdict. They occupy public space like it was built specifically for them. If life is a party, they are not leaving early. They are changing outfits and staying for the after party.

Think of them like a long running film you were not cast in. A group of women stationed at the fountain every day. One eats cheese. One drinks wine. One knits something mysterious that will never be finished. They all stare at you like you are both fascinating and deeply disappointing. You cannot join them. You will never join them. The best you can hope for is to become a topic of conversation. And honestly, that’s an honor.

I think about where this started for me. When I was 16 working at an old folks home as the dishwasher who somehow promoted himself to social coordinator. I’d set up the dining room and then go sit with residents. Ethel, who was non verbal but somehow said everything. Eleanor, who entered every room like “oh dearie” was both a greeting and a warning. They fascinated me. Their stories were still there, just tucked behind time.

My aunt lived in a convent and we would visit the nuns in their final years. They lit up at visitors. I once brought my dog Zelda in like I was delivering a surprise guest appearance. Was that allowed? No idea. Did anyone stop me? Also no. These women gathered around her like she was the second coming. Honestly, more facilities should have dogs. Immediate mood improvement. Science probably backs me up.

My grandma, Sonia’s namesake, was one of these women. We went to Panera every Saturday where I sat with her and her friends as they discussed everything from failing restaurants to dusty shelves to the absolute audacity of a server saying “what can I get you guys.” I am not a guy, she would say, and honestly she was right and also terrifying.

Older women have always been characters to me. Fully formed. Unfiltered. Not here to impress you. It is aspirational.

In the US, aging can feel like a slow fade out. Softer voices. Smaller lives. A cultural suggestion to maybe just quietly exit stage left. My mom is convinced I will ship her off to a home one day. She fears ending up forgotten while I’m over here in France living my baguette fantasy. I tell her if she has dementia she won’t know where she is so technically problem solved. I am kidding. Mostly.

In France, aging feels like a promotion. More confidence. Less tolerance. Better outfits. Stronger opinions. A complete lack of interest in your nonsense. It is less aging gracefully and more aging audibly and I respect it deeply. I am built for this type of aging.

And then I think about Sonia. One day she will be 80. I will be long gone and she will be somewhere in Paris, sitting along the Seine, wearing oversized sunglasses like Iris Apfel reborn, judging everyone’s outfit choices while sipping something expensive and unnecessary. She will have opinions. She will share them. Freely. God help the public.

So without further ado, let me introduce you to the five glamorous French women you already know.

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The Parisian Side-Eye Assassin. She doesn’t speak. She judges. Found within a 3 km radius of Le Marais or anywhere tourists experience joy. Her scarf costs more than your rent. She communicates entirely through micro expressions. You feel the judgment before you see it. She has not smiled since 1975 and she is not about to start now. You crave her approval. You will never receive it.

The Carcassonne Bench Mafia Boss. She sits at Place Carnot like a beautifully dressed gargoyle overseeing the city. She does not move because she does not need to. Everything comes to her. Deliveries, gossip, your poor outfit choices. There are two others with her. No one knows who is in charge but somehow everyone knows she is. Walk by once, she notices. Twice, you are a pattern. Three times, you are a storyline.

The Boulangerie Line Enforcer. She protects the line like it is national security. She has been coming at 7 am for twenty years. Do not disrupt the rhythm. If you hesitate she exhales in a way that makes you reconsider your entire existence. You say pain au chocolat wrong and she does not react externally but spiritually she is exhausted by you. She is not in the line. She is the line.

The Café Camp-Out Queen. She arrived at 8 am and ordered one coffee. She is still there. The time? Irrelevant. She is not occupying a table. She is protecting territory. She has greeted at least ten people with two kisses each and knows who is cheating, who is broke, and who is pretending not to be both. The waiter will not rush her. He values his life.

The Market Gladiator. She enters the market like it is a competitive sport. She touches every tomato. She questions every vendor. Where was this grown? When was it picked? Why does it look like this? You avoid eye contact. She negotiates. You pay full price. She leaves with the best produce, a discount, and possibly the mayor’s respect.

The Pharmacy Oracle. She exists exclusively inside the neighborhood pharmacie and somehow knows more than your doctor, your mother, and Doctolib combined. She leans on the counter like she owns shares in the place, describing her symptoms with theatrical detail while also diagnosing yours from across the room. “No no, that cough? Not good.” She has a preferred pharmacist and if they are not there she simply will not be helped. She has tried every cream, every tincture, every mysterious herbal drop in a bottle that looks like it survived the 1800s. She does not Google. Google would consult her.

Madame Pigeon. From her third-floor throne, Madame Pigeon doesn’t feed birds, she hosts a full-scale aerial event, tossing stale baguette like it’s couture confetti at Paris Fashion Week. You, tragically, look up and suggest she maybe… doesn’t. That’s when she slowly lowers her Chanel sunglasses like Miranda Priestly spotting an outfit she didn’t approve of. The pause is lethal. The judgment immediate. And then…flick. A second, far more aggressive toss of crumbs rains down directly onto you. Not the pigeons. You. Shoulder, hair, soul. It’s no longer about feeding birds. It’s about reminding you who runs this block. She says nothing, just disappears behind her lace curtains as the pigeons descend into chaos and you stand there, lightly breaded and spiritually humbled.

This list could be build out further. Perhaps one day it will be. For now, these women are not background characters. They were born to be the main event. And if you are lucky, one day you will walk a little slower, judge a little sharper, order a little faster, and realize you have become one of them. God help the tourists.

Moral of the story. Life will knock you flat on your face in front of a boulangerie at some point. When it does, I hope you get back up like that woman did. Unbothered. Slightly damp. Completely unfazed. I hope you take up space, say what you think, wear what you want, and stay at the party longer than anyone expects.

And if you’re living abroad, or dreaming about it, take this as your permission slip. You do not need perfect language skills, perfect timing, or perfect confidence to show up fully in a place that is not originally yours. You just need the willingness to participate anyway. Be the person who helps, who tries, who fumbles through conversations and still laughs. Be the one who takes up space even when you feel like a guest.

Because the goal is not to blend in so well you disappear. The goal is to belong so fully you stop asking for permission. Whether you’re in France or anywhere life drops you, be that woman. The one who gets back up, adjusts her scarf, and keeps going like the street was always hers.

Follow along on Instagram @Le_Simple_Sudiste for more completely unqualified life observations and accidental public performances.

If you enjoyed this, consider buying me a coffee or upgrading for 5 dollars a month. Think of it as that one coffee you promise yourself you won’t buy and then absolutely do anyway. With your monthly subscription you’ll get my guide Moving to France. The Paperwork, The Panic, The Plan and with an annual subscription you get access to me for a one on one chat if you are planning your move. Equal parts helpful and emotionally supportive.

Now go ahead and restack this like the Bench Mafia Boss is watching and silently judging your engagement strategy.

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Now this didn’t come unprompted of course. Yuri had gone to a dinner party the other night and I stayed home with Sonia after she got her hair done. She had her monthly diva appointment at the braiding salon and after five hours in the chair her head was sore, her patience was gone, and frankly so was mine by association. I agreed to take her for pizza and gave up adult time, which is basically the highest form of parental sacrifice short of giving them your last fry.

As we walked, Sonia asked why we were going to the pizza place in the Bastide. There is a perfectly fine, authentic Italian place right next door to our house. Like, we could have tripped out the front door and landed in a bowl of pasta. The reality is she needed something to complain about and walking ten minutes to the city center was her hill to die on. Children don’t want solutions. They want a narrative.

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I explained we have to go support the local businesses. I asked her, why do you think all these businesses are closed. She said, because nobody went to them and if they don’t go they will close. That is my smart girl. A tiny economist with braids and opinions. She still would have rather just eaten next door, but at least she understood the assignment.

In typical fashion I had more food than her and she was not pleased about it. So I did what dad does and gave her a slice of my pizza. Mine being Napoli, it had anchovies. Dad, what are these things? Little salty fish, I said, already bracing myself for impact. She took a bite and loudly exclaimed in an empty restaurant, with the owner right next to us, that pizza is disgusting!

I both laughed and was mortified. Like proud of her honesty, horrified for my reputation, and suddenly very aware that we would never be invited back for “the usual.” Yet another teaching moment. I said, what do we want the owner to feel about the food she cooked for us. What do you think you can tell her.

She said, I will tell her mine was delicious. Yours was not.

So…progress. Emotional intelligence but make it selective.

As we walked home I looked around at all the empty storefronts. Recently Carcassonne has seen an uptick in businesses closing in the Bastide. It’s been reported that 40 percent of locals are considered poor.

With businesses closing, so go the jobs and honestly, where are the other 60 percent? Are they hiding? Blink twice if you are out there and thriving. The question can also be asked why are businesses not innovating their products and offering more of what people need and want. I am honestly surprised the local lingerie shop and other boutique clothing stores have survived. I mean, I love optimism but who is walking around thinking, you know what I need today, lace.

Many of the restaurants in my opinion have become the same as the one next door with different branding. Nothing is all that unique, just claims of the best cassoulet on the chalkboard like it is a competitive sport. Nobody offers wifi or food between 2 and 7. This is not unique to Carcassonne given the French are accustomed to this way of living, but still. A snack would not kill anyone.

I’d argue it is time to innovate. We have two bookstores with the worst selection of English books. I could curate a better shelf and I am but an amateur reader with commitment issues. The books feel like someone Googled “what did Americans read in 1997” and just…stopped there. No new releases, no trending titles, no page turners. It is giving dusty paperbacks and emotional support cookbooks. Not quite Danielle Steel, but also not not Danielle Steel. Somewhere in a confusing literary purgatory.

Growing up I loved going to the bookstore. Our mall had Walden Books and I would scour the shelves like I was on a treasure hunt with zero budget and maximum delusion. This was the 80s. Later came the big city Barnes and Noble with a Starbucks inside. I would stop for the espresso brownie on my way to work, do a quick tour of the books, feel intellectually superior for ten minutes, and then go sit in traffic. It was a lifestyle.

I want Sonia to see us reading so now as an adult I have made it more of a priority to have a book on hand. She has a full English library in her closet and insists we read to her every night or she will not go to bed. It is less of a bedtime routine and more of a hostage negotiation. Now when she passes the local bookshop she always wants to go in and get a new book.

The thing is, the city seems to be dying. It relies on tourism to survive. Next month will be the big push through September and businesses will rely on all the money they make to carry them through the year. Millions of tourists are coming, this should be easy, right. Wrong.

What if the problem with travel is not where we go, it is where we spend.

Many of us obsess over what we want to see. We hit all the landmarks and seek out all the Instagram worthy views. But then we land in these cities we claim to have loved and spend like we are at duty free. Same chains. Same convenience. Same safe choices. Maybe a couple tourist trap toys or T shirts for the kids. Then we wonder why everything starts to feel the same. It is because we are making it the same.

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I get it. Yuri would say vacation Rich is a spender. Vacation me is generous. I go on holiday and so does my wallet. I think I can buy whatever I want. I found myself hitting up all the big brands, going to Galeries Lafayette in Paris to buy perfumes I do not need and could absolutely find something better at a boutique across the street if I just used my eyes and a little courage.

I now actively seek out more unique experiences and shops to support local on purpose and honestly I have found better deals and better products. Shocking. Truly groundbreaking behavior. Maybe the real guide to traveling to places like Carcassonne is not a list of sights. Everyone comes here for the castle, but do not forget the list of places that will actually notice you when you show up.

There is a local store in town, Deco Bastide. The owner has a fantastic shop filled with beautiful home goods. It is a good thing Yuri hates shopping because I would buy most of the store. Yuri must drag me out, sometimes with a chandelier in my hand. Allegedly. And yet it now hangs in our dining room and Yuri says it looks like a cabana in here, which I choose to hear as coastal luxury.

The owner, however, knows my name. Each time I walk in he greets me by name. I could not tell you his name, which feels like a personal failing I will unpack later. I was shocked when I returned that he remembered me, but that is what these small businesses do. The same happened at a Paris restaurant many years ago. Yuri and I would come back and the owner would run to the door to greet us like long lost relatives. You’re back. And I would think, surely you have seen a million people since we were here last year. How did you remember us. Meanwhile I cannot remember where I parked.

It just goes to show that the way you spend when you travel, or even when you are local, says more than the places you visit. You can see a city without helping it, or you can leave it better than you found it. Most people simply do not realize they are choosing.

If you come to Carcassonne and only visit the Cité, you have seen Carcassonne. If you have spent money in the Bastide, you have supported it.

So here are 10 rules, yes rules, not tips, for your next trip this summer or even in your own backyard.

Spend where it feels slightly inconvenient. Amazon is handy, especially in little towns like Carcassonne when I want a good book immediately like a civilized impatient person. Instead, go order it at the local bookstore. That price you pay is literally helping keep the lights on. Convenience is cute. Community is better.

Choose people over polish. The perfectly designed store with perfect lighting and a logo that looks like it cost more than my first car probably does not need you. The slightly chaotic shop where someone greets you like you are family five minutes in, that is where the magic is. Go where someone might tell you a story, not just hand you a receipt.

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If it looks too perfect, it probably doesn’t need you. The second hand stores and brocantes often have the best finds at wallet friendly prices. A souvenir with history always looks better on your shelf than the same bottle of perfume you could get at the mall anywhere in the world. Go for the slightly worn, slightly imperfect piece with a story. Your future self will thank you when you dramatically explain where it came from to guests who did not ask.

Go where there is no line. We often equate long lines with greatness. Often those lines are just…a vibe. Curated chaos. People standing there thinking this must be amazing because other people are standing there. What if instead you chose the place with no line, empty tables, and a little old lady cooking like she is feeding her own family. That is the meal you will remember.

Return once before you leave. If you loved a place, go back. The second visit is where the relationship starts. The first time you are a customer. The second time you are recognized. The third time they might throw in something extra and suddenly you are emotionally attached to a bakery. This is how it begins.

Skip one chain per trip. Carcassonne has a Sephora. It will survive without you. I promise. You can get most of what is in there at local shops. Let the billion dollar companies rest for a day. They will be fine. Jeff is not worried about you.

Buy something you did not plan to. Years ago in my 20s I bought a random Mexican bowl set in Cancun from a woman on the street near a pyramid I absolutely cannot pronounce. Did I need it? No. Did I have room for it? Also no. Do I still have it today in France? Yes. It has survived every move and somehow tells a better story than anything I have ever carefully planned.

Ask a human, not your phone. The locals want to talk to you. Not speaking to them is an us problem. Try in the local language, even if you butcher it slightly. Many speak English and are looking for the chance to practice, but they will appreciate the effort. Locals know where to go, what to eat, and what is actually worth your time. Your phone does not care about you. It just wants your data.

Accept different hours as part of the experience. This one hurts. You are sitting there at 3:30 with a glass of wine and suddenly you want food and nothing is open. Not even fries. You question everything. Instead, go to the corner market, the boulangerie, the fromagerie, and build your own snack situation. Congratulations, you have created a picnic and supported three businesses instead of one. Growth.

Leave a small tip. Nothing dramatic. The extra money goes into a local worker’s pocket, which they will likely spend in the same community. It is the tiniest economic circle you will ever participate in. You are basically funding someone’s next coffee or glass of wine, which feels like a legacy I am comfortable with.

Leave money where stories live, not just where photos happen. Anyone can take a photo of a beautiful place. Not everyone contributes to keeping it alive. Spend in places where someone will remember you, where something is handmade, where a conversation happens. That is what you take home with you, not just the photo.

Moral of the story. You do not need to be the mayor of a small town to affect change. You just need to decide that your money has a personality. You can either spend it like a ghost, floating through places leaving nothing behind, or like a very charming, slightly overenthusiastic guest who tips, chats, buys the random bowl, and keeps the lights on. Small towns do not survive on admiration. They survive on participation. So go be part of it. Lightly chaotic, slightly over budget, and fully committed.

Follow on Instagram @Le_Simple_Sudiste for more very important life observations and occasional opinions nobody asked for.

If you want to support my writing further. Buy me a coffee or upgrade for 5 dollars a month. Think of it as that one coffee you buy yourself, except instead of caffeine you get me. And that upgrade, it goes into my local community. With your upgraded subscription you will receive a copy of my guide Moving to France, The Paperwork, The Panic, The Plan, plus annual subscriptions have access to me for a one on one chat to help you get off and running with your move to France.

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We are back to two weeks of les vacances because of course we are. I know you are thinking, Rich didn’t you just wrap up les vacances? Yes, yes we did. Now we are on to another because apparently the French school calendar is sponsored by rest, relaxation, and a firm belief that burnout is for Americans.

This spring break we decided to put Sonia back in activity camp. Yesterday as I dropped her off I thought, is she going to be okay? Will she make friends? I know she can now communicate fluently but I remember the days when I was little walking into a room and going and standing alone by the wall afraid to make friends. Just me, the wall, and a personality that screamed “please don’t perceive me.”

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Not my daughter. She is everything I was not as a kid. Popular and everyone’s friend. Sometimes to a fault. She came home raving about all the activities, eating lunch outside, riding bikes around the lake, and playing Ballon Assis. I was like oh what is that? Turns out it is similar to dodgeball but not quite.

If you would have told me 10 years ago I’d be discussing French games with my child and molding a child’s brain, I’d have told you were you out of your mind. Also I would have asked if I looked like someone who knew what Ballon Assis was because absolutely not.

Sonia the other day told me that her friend at school told her that her parents are rich and can buy whatever they want. Cue me explaining how someone’s money does not define their character and why we don’t care about who has or does not have money. Meanwhile I’m also thinking wow capitalism really said let’s start the branding early.

We talk endlessly in this household about differences in how people look, act, handicapable, autism, boys wanting to wear a princess’s skirt and now apparently people’s bank accounts. The good news is that it seems to pay off when Sonia is befriending all sorts of kids and completely unbothered about differences. She is out here building a United Nations of six year olds while I’m still recovering from a childhood where picking a lunch table felt like a high stakes social negotiation.

This weekend we had friends over and we were chatting about how we need to be able to allow our children to fight some of their own battles as they get older. Sonia has gone to the same school for three years now. Petite, moyen and grande section. The parents and families all know us. The kids all know us. We are familiar and nobody has asked questions. If they have, perhaps they have changed their minds about what a family like ours looks like.

Next year as Sonia transitions to CP and a catholic school I wonder what the unfamiliar will bring. The questions about her family looking different because they don’t yet know us. That said, parents are also not allowed in the classroom so many may just not know for a while and Sonia being the unbothered type will likely be like “these are my dads, anyway who wants to play?” and keep it moving without a single existential spiral like her father would have had in 1994.

This morning I asked her how she made friends at camp. She said, I walked up and they asked if I was new here. I said yes. We were then friends.

Maybe we all need to take that approach to life. Like hi, I’m new here, do you want to skip the small talk and go straight to being friends or are we going to make this weird for no reason?

Sonia has started noticing the homeless on the streets. We don’t have a lot here in Carcassonne so when she sees them they stand out. Most of course want to be left alone but the other day one was walking behind her and she was convinced they were following her and she was frightened.

We have started to talk to her about how some people are unhoused, what that means and how they are not mean or bad people. But we have also started talking about stranger danger subjects with Sonia. Because parenting is just one long series of “people are good” followed immediately by “but also stay alert.”

We were raised on a very specific set of rules in America. Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t take candy. Definitely don’t get into a stranger’s car. Basically assume every unknown human is one bad decision away from starring in your personal true crime episode.

And yet, here we are living abroad watching our kids accept candy from the window of the guy around the corner, seeing hitchhikers on the side of the road, living in a world where we book Blah Blah cars and watching her chat with random adults in the town square as she runs around playing by the fountain like she owns municipal property.

Somewhere between “stranger danger” and “bonjour madame” the rules changed and maybe they were never as universal as we thought.

In the 5th grade we moved to a new neighborhood. A local kid told us about the lady across the street who handed out candy. Each day we could run across the street and get a piece of candy from Helen. One chocolate star. We’d run up her back stairs and I remember her house always smelled like my great grandma’s and mild mystery.

My parents found out and immediately had to meet this lady handing out candy before we were allowed to go back. A full background check for a woman with a bowl of Brach’s chocolate stars.

Here in France there is an older man who lives around the corner from us. He has taken a liking to Sonia and every few weeks he looks for her from his first floor window with a bag of Haribo’s like some sort of neighborhood candy fairy.

We ran into him at the store the other day as Sonia was getting a slushie. As he left the store he walked up with a bag of candy for her, smiled, and walked away like a casual act of kindness had just occurred and not a full American parenting crisis.

There is another lady at the corner restaurant by the castle who hands her a sucker each time we walk by. Now Sonia walks in looking for the sucker much like we used to go to Helen’s house looking for a piece of chocolate.

The point being I guess there is no blanket rule on taking candy from a stranger, just a quick gut check and a silent internal audit of who feels like they’ve never been the subject of a true crime podcast.

The other day Yuri saw a hitchhiker on the corner by our house. He sent me a text and was like what in the 1970’s is going on, there is a hitchhiker on the street. I had seen one a few weeks back so when he told me this I thought oh this must still be a thing here. Yuri posted it on FB.

A friend responded saying that he had travelled all over France and New Zealand and it was great. “Ecological, friendly and exploratory” is how he described it.

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I responded, it must be the American culture but we’d never hitch hike or pull over for a hitchhiker. Guns, knives, and a surprise guest appearance on Dateline.

I can’t imagine going down the highway thinking oh that guy needs a lift, let me pull over and let them get in my car. I am still very American. Maybe this is not just me being American, maybe it is just what we know and are comfortable with? I don’t know, you tell me below. For me, it is a no. I’d give them money before I’d give them a ride.

Yuri typically frowns on me giving anything to beggars or the unhoused. Last summer we’d buy water and hand it to the people on the streets. I’d have Sonia hand it to them as I find it good to teach her to help others in need with small gestures of kindness. Also because if she grows up kind and generous I can take partial credit publicly.

But in today’s world we do live in a different time even if a different culture that we are raising Sonia in. Here in France they have Blah Blah car. You can literally log in and find someone headed in the direction you are going and book a seat in their car. You pay a fee to assist with gas and they tell you where they will pick you up and drop you off. Basically digital hitchhiking really. So here I am debunking myself as I have taken Blah Blah car myself like a full hypocrite with a booking confirmation.

We are literally getting in cars with strangers and it is all too normal now to do so. We think nothing of it. Could they be driving us to our own Dateline segment, who knows but if you are lucky not only have you gotten in a car with strangers they might offer you water or a piece of candy. It really is a pick your own adventure exercise with snacks.

I know at some point Sonia is going to want her independence and want to walk to school alone. We are a few years off from this. Even then I will be her personal stalker lingering like a shadow a block behind her pretending I just love fresh air and coincidence. It frightens me to think of her going off into the world. I don’t know how parents do it.

For now she says she is never leaving home and will hold my hand on the way to school for the rest of her life. I am good with this. If anyone knows how to legally lock this in please let me know as I know the term “bro” is right around the corner and I am not prepared.

I am just getting comfortable with her running between our house and the third floor neighbors. The odd feeling of her leaving the house and trusting her to her own devices. Did the wind just blow the door open, nope that was the ghost of Sonia running in to grab her rubber band bracelet kit before flying out the door and back off to the neighbors. “Au revoir bro,” echoes in my soul.

That said, life is indeed different. The whole you don’t understand what it is like to be a kid is both a reality and of course a fallacy. We are living in different times and in a different culture than the one we grew up in. Sonia is thriving as a French girl where things are just different and somehow also completely normal to her.

Here in France she can run the square while we are eating over at the corner restaurant. Yes, even at six. She is off running around, meeting tourist kids, running the square, playing, exploring and doing so quietly. The whole be seen and not heard is alive and well and honestly thriving. Yes we have a side eye on her but here parents do not hover like drones with snacks and anxiety.

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Here kids can fail. Publicly. In the US we are trained to intervene immediately. In France, we shrug and sip wine while watching a child absolutely beef it off a scooter, stand up, dust themselves off and keep going like a tiny resilient icon. In America that same fall would trigger a group chat, a pediatrician consult, and at least one Yelp review about the sidewalk conditions.

Here there is risk tolerance in play. In the US the playgrounds are padded, sanitized and lawsuit proof. Here in Carcassonne they give the vibe, you might fall and that is between you and your life choices. There are rocks. There are questionable heights. There is one structure that looks like it was designed by someone who said what if we just let them figure it out. And you know what, they do. With stronger ankles and better stories.

Sugar culture is different. Ironically flipped. In the US sugar is panic. I remember Sonia’s first birthday I made her a cake that was sugar free like I was cos playing in a Megan Markle Netflix special.

I was obsessed with controlling any sugar intake because of high fructose corn syrup and labels that read like a science experiment. Here in France food is made with real sugar. Less sweet. Smaller portions and absolutely no one is spiraling over a madeleine. It is calm. It is chic.

In America we don’t just teach safety. It teaches fear as a default. I mean kids have to learn gun drills in America. It is a whole new level of nervous system overload they are teaching kids at six, something Sonia will not experience here in France and something I am deeply grateful for every single day.

Europe does not just ignore risk but it does normalize independence earlier. In the US safety equals control. Fear equals control. Here safety is community plus exposure plus trust. With limits of course because we are not completely feral.

We are finding ourselves teaching Sonia to trust her instincts. Most people are kind but you must stay aware. Ask for help when you need it and that the world is not some big scary place as we are sold in headlines but it is also not Disneyland, even if you live where there is in fact a castle down the street which feels like a confusing mixed message.

Yes in many ways these are universal truths not just taught here. I understand that but the moral of the story is that we are seeing life differently as adult American dads raising a French girl.

We are blending two playbooks. One that taught us to lock the doors, check the backseat, and assume danger is lurking behind every polite smile. And another that says sit outside, let your kid roam a little, trust the village, and maybe accept the Haribo.

Somewhere in the middle is where we are landing. A little cautious, a little relaxed, occasionally contradictory, and constantly learning. She is growing up with both lenses and somehow making them make sense in a way we never could. And honestly, watching her navigate it with confidence, curiosity and zero concern for our generational baggage is both humbling and wildly entertaining.

Follow along on Instagram at Le_Simple_Sudiste for more very scientific observations on French life and unsolicited parenting commentary.

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Now go ahead and restack this like you just discovered French school vacations are a lifestyle, not a schedule.

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Nothing exposes your friendships faster than travel. Not dinner and drinks. Not years of friendships. Travel. One of you wants to make the most of it and the other wants to sit with a coffee and people watch for three hours and suddenly you are in a silent stand off in a foreign country pretending everything is fine while aggressively sipping espresso.

This is the season of sunshine, memories, and just enough tension to test dynamics you thought were solid.

A restack goes a long way in helping support my work. I am grateful for your support. You can also click that little heart, comment or upgrade to a paid subscription.

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I have a love hate relationship with tourists. They keep Carcassonne thriving so of course for that reason we locals welcome them with open arms. Sometimes those arms are open because you are about to elbow your way through Monoprix. Details.

That said, I do enjoy sitting in a lively square where Sonia whispers, “they must not be from here they are so loud.” We are constantly reminding her, “you are a French girl not a loud American.” This is not dinner and a sideshow. If you want to run around the fountain fine, but be seen and not heard, merci beaucoup.

Meanwhile the tourists’ children are screaming like they just discovered gravity and the Americans are loudly reciting their itinerary along with yesterday’s full emotional recap including “and then the waiter ignored us for like ten minutes, can you believe it?” Yes Karen, we all can. We were there. Against our will.

Sometimes you get blessed with the real drama. The arguments. This was your fault. I don’t care. You do your thing, I will do mine. Nothing pairs with a glass of rosé quite like someone whisper yelling “I said I didn’t want to go to the museum” through clenched teeth.

Back in the summer of 2019 we traveled to France with family. We were attending the first Versailles Electroconcert. It was billed as the first time the Palace of Versailles hosted a large scale electronic music party. It has since become an annual event because apparently nothing says French heritage like bass drops in a royal garden.

Somewhere Marie Antoinette is still being blamed for cake she never actually said to eat, while the gardens are out here serving glow sticks, DJs, and a vibe that would have absolutely sent the monarchy into a full spiral. Imagine Louis XVI trying to process a remix. Immediate abdication.

The event was honestly incredible. We took the train from Paris arriving early because of course we wanted to be the first in the VIP section. We are nothing if not aggressively prepared for leisure.

In true French form it was mass confusion at the entry. One entry for thousands of people. VIP entry the same as general public because why would logic be invited to this party? The VIP section was all the way across the general standing room which felt like a fun little obstacle course. We made it, grabbed champagne and snacks, and locked in. As the evening built, VIP filled up but the general standing room turned into Coachella if Coachella had perfectly manicured gardens, historic fountains, and just a touch more European side eye.

Literally thousands of people as far as the eye could see. All I could think was “the exit is on the other side of all those people.”

Of course the event planners had not thought this detail through. Why would they. We were now trapped in Versailles like slightly tipsy aristocrats with no escape plan. History really does repeat itself.

Ever the planner all I could think was how we were taking an Uber back to Paris at the end of the night and we would easily be the last people out of this event missing every ride and sleeping on a gravel path like discarded nobility. I did not come to Versailles to become part of the landscaping.

I thought we are going to have to fight our way through this crowd like a Zara sample sale which meant leaving early to even stand a chance. I, being the biggest in the group, was immediately promoted to Moses of Versailles. Parting the Red Sea but with drunk people and techno.

Think corn field at night, hand in hand, do not let go or you will be lost forever, except instead of corn it is sequins and bad decisions.

Let’s rewind a minute.

We enjoyed the performance. It was incredible and if you ever get the chance to go, you should. We partied the night away but as midnight approached I said this is our moment. If we stand any chance of leaving with dignity and a working Uber app, we go now.

Yuri’s brother in law said absolutely not. He was not leaving. Not a chance. We begged. We pleaded. Yuri’s sister agreed it was time. We could grab drinks back in Paris but first we needed to survive Versailles.

After a lot of convincing we made a run for it. I said hold tight, took a deep breath, and thought here we go. I pushed. There was no excuse me, no sorry, no coming through. Just bass drops and me bulldozing like a polite American had finally snapped.

Halfway through I saw two small women also trying to escape. I screamed “are you leaving, do you need help.” They screamed yes. I let go of Yuri’s hand, he grabbed theirs, I grabbed the other, we formed a human chain like some kind of chaotic rescue mission and kept going. And somehow, against all odds and several elbows, we made it.

On the other side I felt accomplished. Did you see what I just did. Olympic level performance. His brother in law was not impressed. Just angry. I however was glowing knowing I would be in a bed and not haunting Versailles.

The next day we got a call from his sister. “Sorry we won’t be seeing you the rest of the trip.” No explanation. But we knew. He was mad. We were to blame for him missing the end of the concert. He had emotionally French exited the group and was taking his wife with him.

I mean it is Paris and we had been before. Even if we had not, we thought okay bye. Your loss not ours and we carried on. Because nothing heals travel drama like a more wine and selective memory.

Yuri and I have always prided ourselves on being good travelers whether together or in a group. Even we do not like doing the same things all the time. He would rather lie on the beach drinking rosé. I would rather be off exploring, hiking, seeing the sights and then yes, eventually joining him with a drink like I earned it.

We knew going into a trip with others we would not be together all the time. In fact I believe you should not be. Do your own thing. Meet for dinner. Maybe not even every night. Share stories, share wine, steal each other’s ideas for the next day. That is how you travel without wanting to file a complaint against your own friends.

So when we were cut off we were disappointed by the behavior but also…we got over it quickly and had a fantastic trip because again, Paris.

The point however is the people you do and don’t want to travel with and how to be a good travel partner. In my opinion.

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So as you enter tourist season and start packing your bags and your emotional baggage, here are the people you want to travel with and the ones you absolutely do not. Choose wisely.

The 5 Travelers You Absolutely Want in Your Group
Claire “Go With the Flow” Dubois
Claire woke up late, missed breakfast, got lost, and still somehow had the best day of anyone on the trip. She does not panic when plans change. She thrives in it. Museum closed? Perfect, let’s wander. Train delayed? More time for wine. She is emotionally waterproof and logistically flexible which makes her the human Xanax of any group trip.

Marc “Spreadsheet, But Chill” Laurent
Marc has a Google Doc. But like a sexy one. Tabs. Color coding. Links. Reservations. Backup plans. Probably a pivot strategy and a light snack suggestion.
The difference is he does not weaponize it. He suggests, not commands. He will say I booked this amazing place but if we pivot, totally fine. You want someone who plans just enough so you are not standing in the street Googling food near me at 2pm while hunger turns you into a villain.

Sophie “I’ll Do My Own Thing and Meet You Later” Martin
Sophie disappears at 10am and reappears at 7pm glowing, hydrated, and somehow with better stories than everyone else. She does not cling. She does not guilt. She does not act like you leaving for a solo walk is the beginning of the end. She understands the sacred truth. Group travel works best when it occasionally is not group travel.

Julien “Yes, And…” Mercier
Every suggestion gets a yes and. Should we grab a drink. Yes and there is a jazz bar nearby. Should we walk. Yes and there is a bakery on the way. He builds momentum instead of shutting things down like someone who says “I don’t know” to everything and somehow still has opinions.

Amélie “Low Maintenance, High Vibes” Rousseau
She packs light. She is ready fast. She does not need a 45 minute outfit crisis. She can eat anywhere, sleep anywhere, pivot anytime. She is not chasing perfection. She is chasing a good time.

The 5 Travelers You Should Absolutely Not Book With Again
Gérard “We Must Stay Together” Petit
Gérard thinks travel is a group hostage situation. You want to go for a solo walk. Betrayal. You want to skip the museum. Division. You want alone time. Emotional crime. You start fantasizing about losing him in a crowd on purpose.

Chantal “Nothing Is Ever Quite Right” Moreau
The coffee is too strong. The hotel is too small. The croissant is not like the one she had in 2004 which she will mention hourly. Chantal is never satisfied which means no one else gets to be either. She drains joy faster than a Ryanair baggage fee.

Philippe “The Dictator” Bernard
Philippe made an itinerary and you will follow it.
8:00 breakfast
9:00 museum
11:15 walking tour
11:47 “free time” which is not free time
You become an unpaid actor in his documentary called My Perfect Trip.

Élodie “The Ghost Until It’s Time to Eat” Girard
You do not see Élodie all day. But mention dinner and she appears like a well dressed ghost with opinions about appetizers. She is not in the group, she is invoicing the group.

Thierry “Budget Assassin” Lefèvre
Thierry says he is easygoing about money. He is lying. He orders water, judges your wine, and audits the bill like he works for the European Central Bank. He is a passive aggressive penny pinching machine. He kills the vibe with financial interrogation over olives.

At the end of the day there are many ways to save your trip. The most obvious being, be an adult. Set expectations before you go. Normalize alone time. Yuri and I loved taking solo days even when traveling together because sometimes love looks like not speaking for six hours and then regrouping over dinner like civilized people.

Keep your plans loose. This is not a corporate offsite. This is a holiday. Talk about money like adults. Know when you are splitting a meal and when you are not. Choose a vibe over a checklist because no one has ever said their favorite memory was staying on schedule.

You should expect you will not be doing everything together. Spare the hurt feelings early. And stop saying you are fine with anything. No you are not. Yuri would love for me to take this advice. What do you want to eat? Anything. Burger. No. Tacos. No. Pasta. No. Seafood. No. Congratulations we now live here. We are never leaving this room. Hangry is our new personality.

And lastly stop overpacking your agenda. It is a holiday. Sit down. Relax. Enjoy it. How many of us needed a vacation from our vacation because we scheduled joy like it was a meeting.

Moral of the story: Be Claire. Not Gérard. That is it. That is the tweet. But also let me expand because clearly some of you need examples. Travel is not about control. It is not about winning. It is not about making sure everyone sticks together like a suspiciously codependent pack of tourists. It is about shared experiences and separate ones that somehow become better when you tell each other about them later.

If you find yourself gripping the itinerary, judging every choice, or silently fuming because someone dared to enjoy their day differently than you, take a breath. Put the spreadsheet down. Have a glass of wine. Let the day unfold. Nobody came to France to argue in public while a man plays accordion in the background judging you both.

The real flex of travel is not how much you see. It is how well you handle not seeing everything. It is how you let people be who they are without turning it into a personality flaw. It is how you laugh when things go wrong instead of assigning blame like you are in a courtroom drama.

So yes, we escaped Versailles like chaotic heroes and lost travel companions in the process. And honestly? Still worth it. Because the story is better, the memory is stronger, and we learned exactly who we want standing next to us when it is time to run through a crowd.

Follow on Instagram at Le_Simple_Sudiste for more mildly chaotic life in France and unsolicited opinions delivered with confidence.

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Now go ahead and restack this before Gérard makes you all stay together and nobody gets to leave the hotel.

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